


A Blanker Whiteness of Benighted Snow

by bestworstcase (windrattlestheblinds)



Series: The Ones Who Bloom in the Bitter Snow [1]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: AU - Canon Divergent, Alternate Season 1, Bitter Snow, Canon Rewrite, Eldritch Fantasy, Gen, Grey and Gray Morality, Saporian!Caine, Saporian!Cass, and to that i say: bullshit where’s all the saporians then, canon says the separatists are just cranky about a war that ended centuries ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 192,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windrattlestheblinds/pseuds/bestworstcase
Summary: The Lost Princess comes home; but as the summer dies, an ancient grudge blossoms into violence, mysterious black rocks ravage the kingdom of Corona, and her happily ever after has never felt further out of reach.Rapunzel dreams of freedom beyond the shining palace walls.Cassandra fights to escape the shadow of a poisoned legacy.Varian chases answers, desperate to save his dying village.And Lady Caine just wants to watch Corona burn.
Relationships: Rapunzel/Eugene, unrequited Cassandra/Rapunzel
Series: The Ones Who Bloom in the Bitter Snow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721755
Comments: 290
Kudos: 295





	1. Cover Art and Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _Bitter Snow_ is a Saporian!Cass AU/series rewrite premised on the idea that Saporian culture did not go gently into the night following the unification. There are many changes from canon, many of which do not pertain directly to Cassandra’s altered backstory. It's my city now.
> 
> To those of you coming here from the original _Bitter Snow_ , thank you for your patience and for sticking with me for the revamp! Especially to those of you who took the time to comment—I have every single comment saved, and I appreciate them all so much!
> 
> CW: injuries, blood, mild gore, and (minor) character death. **All of these apply in the Prologue.**
> 
>  _Benighted_ will update weekly on Fridays.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated—please tell me your thoughts! I love to read them!—and I hope you enjoy the story! ♥

###  **_Prologue_ **

By midnight on midsummer’s eve, most of the lanterns have burnt out and fallen from the sky; lifeless flotsam of royal sentimentality. The remaining few glint against the swollen underbelly of a gathering storm, as if daring it to break and extinguish them forever.

Charles Patton is passing the hours of his watch in contemplation of these dwindling lights when Sirin Hároham snaps her garrote around his neck. He thrashes, the braided line coils tighter, and it is over in twenty seconds. The young constable shudders, then slumps into her arms with a wet gurgle, his throat split open by the snare.

The night stills. Surf whispers against the cliffs far below, and the sweet stench of blood coagulates in the hot, sticky air.

Sirin lets the body fall. It crumples into the wild beachgrass with a soft, listless _thump,_ and she wipes the blood from her hands with the corner of her threadbare shawl as she steps past him and down into the ancient henge of his last, ill-fated vigil.

Mist festoons the stones in indolent tendrils, reeking of brine and putrid kelp; wild vestments of bramble and bog-moss and bindweed drape every crumbling pillar. Cresezáhan grows from the jardinière in the center of the henge: a behemothic yew, its colossal trunk streaked with lustrous vermillion sap, irradiating the henge with a faint, blood-tinged glow.

_The Lady’s Tree._

Adorning the hulking sides of the jardinière are carvings of fantastic, chimerical creatures: skull-faced martins with long, serpentine tails; wolves with feathered manes and mossy antlers draped with ivy crowns; ravens with roses blossoming from hollow eyes and chitinous chests that spindle and barb like murex shells; they creep through twisted undergrowth, dance among vicious briars, glut themselves on the carcasses of rotting beasts; a gruesome menagerie of stone. Sirin presses her fingertips to her lips, and then to the jardinière’s weathered rim, reverent.

A damp breeze sighs through the henge, curling the mist in slow, lazy spirals. She crouches in the pulsating shadows beneath the tree, where gnarled roots crawl forth from the cracked base of the jardinière and give shelter to beds of henbane and black hellebore; a baneful garden that rustles in the breathless air as Sirin gathers her poisonous bouquet. When she rises again, lightning laces the bruised sky, and the night moans a thunderous overture to the coming storm.

Flowers cradled in her arms, she returns to Patton and studies his corpse in the ghastly shades of storm-light. His mouth gapes open with the slackness of death, wide and black beneath his dark, glassy eyes. Her garrote collars him in thorns and blood.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Dathámīm min sílin mámor salāmóla.”

_No flower blooms without death._

Shaking her head, she lays her flowers aside and spends the next few moments stripping his body of gloves and boots, gambeson and linen undershirt, and dragging him into a wash of sanguine light spilling between the mossy henge-stones. She brushes his cropped, sandy hair away from his pallid forehead and draws the cásha knife from its loop on her belt. Its osseous blade shines red as she kneels over him.

Gripping a fistful of his hair for purchase, she peels the flesh from his face in long strips until nothing is left but the bone-rictus grin of a skull soaked in gore; scoops out his eyes with the curved tip of the knife, cuts out his tongue, and fills the empty cavities with handfuls of bloody loam and henbane blossoms; cuts a length of bindweed from the henge and uses it to bind his hands around a bouquet of hellebore. Her hands grow slippery with blood and a noxious fetor swells as the corpse settles into death and the sky screams with thunder.

Finally, she lowers the knife to his chest, and carves the words:

_ÁRAM HĀNĪM SÍCAR DHĀM, ÓRA SÍCARIMIS DHA_

Then she gets to her feet, stiff after so long on the ground; wipes her hands and the cásha knife clean on her shawl. She slinks back into the night, following the narrow track that snakes furtively up the promontory; away from Janus Point as the skies open and the rain begins to fall.

She does not look back.

The lanterns gutter out into darkness, one by one.


	2. Chapter 1: Dawn Goes Down to Day

### Chapter One: Dawn Goes Down to Day

Dawn softens the rain into a thin golden haze, and as they carry her scant belongings out of the tower, Rapunzel surprises herself with how little she wants to keep. The square of violet fabric emblazoned with the yellow Coronan sun. Her paintbrushes. The skillet. Food for the journey. And the tiara, of course. Everything else feels… tainted.

She bundles everything into Eugene’s satchel while he crouches at the edge of the pond to scrub the blood out of his jerkin. She ponders breakfast, and how long it will take them to ride back to Herzingen, and what will happen when they arrive. Not the tower, not the small puddle of wet ash beneath its window or the grey cloak and empty dress crumpled in the grass. Not the scream when—

Pascal suns himself in the light spilling through the mist, and Rapunzel watches him. She cradles the satchel,studying the way the sunlight traces his scales, makes him glow a lurid green against the wet grey of the tower’s foundation. Colors; old familiar shapes. She breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

After a while Eugene wrings the water out of his jerkin and yanks it back over his head. Blood still stains the sky-blue wool, faded and purple like a bruise.

He catches her staring and strides across the dewy grass to take her hands.For a moment they just look at each other in the same gentle silence that fell between them last night, after the fading of tears and promises and explanations and plans; Rapunzel rocks forward, hugging him hard, her ear pressed against his chest so she can feel the comforting _pa-thump_ of his heart. His fingers feather through her hair, so short and light she feels she might float away without the comforting weight of it to anchor—

“Hey, Sunshine,” he murmurs. “You ready?”

She told him, last night while the storm raged, who she really is, who Gothel had stolen her from, and they talked for a long while about what to _do._ The tiara he’d stolen, the tiara that belongs to _her,_ sat on the floor between them, where it had fallen amid the shattered mirror-glass and the endless coils of her dead, brown hair.

She had not been able to stop _looking_ at it.

Wanting to meet her real parents. Wanting to escape the nightmare of her childhood in the tower. Wanting to go back to _sleep,_ return to the illusion of a dream safe and warm in her tower with her golden hair.

Eugene smells like blood and summer; the fresh scent of wildflowers and sunlight on the breeze; the scent of peaceful, fire-lit evenings while Mother brushed her hair and sang. _Flower, gleam and—_

Her stomach twists.

She takes a deep breath, and whispers, “I think so.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Eugene says. He squeezes her shoulders, reaches up to tuck a loose wisp of her hair behind her ear. Flecks of gold glint in his warm brown eyes when he tilts his head and the dawn light falls across his face. “We go in, surrender, give back Max and the tiara, explain everything… It’ll all be fine. Don’t worry about me, Rapunzel.”

Eugene had told her what happened to him after Gothel lured her back to the tower. His capture, his narrow escape from hanging. And if returning to a home she barely remembers means putting his life in danger _again_ —

But when she suggested they run away together, Eugene talked her out of it with this same serene certainty. Returning the stolen tiara and bringing Corona’s Lost Princess home would have to count for a lighter sentence, he’d said. So they’re going… home.

Whatever _home_ means.

Fear closes like a fist around her lungs. She forces out a chuckle to disguise the hitch of anxiety in her breath. “If… worst comes to worst, I’ll break you out of prison.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve got those thugs at the Duckling eating out of your hands.” Eugene stoops to kiss her forehead before he lets her go and saunters past her to collect Maximus, who’s grazing in shadow of the tower. Over his shoulder, he continues airily, “Y’know, Sunshine, if this whole princess of Corona thing goes south, you’d make a fine princess of _thieves._ ”

“You think?” Rapunzel bends to coax Pascal onto her shoulder, tickling the little chameleon under his chin as she stage whispers, “I’m not too sure about that. What do you think, Pascal?”

He rolls one of his bulging eyes up, gazing at her with stern reptilian disapproval, and as she strokes the knobbly scales along his spine, he chirrups grumpily. “I think that’s a _no_ from Pascal.”

“Eh, well, I guess it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Eugene heaves the saddle onto Max’s withers, grunting, and the huge stallion snorts his displeasure. “Prison’s a bit of a downer. And you just _can’t_ get decent wanted posters nowadays. If it isn’t the nose, it’s the chin. Or the _hair!_ Or—say, you think I could get a royal portrait?” He pulls the last strap of the saddle tight and strikes a pose, smoldering. “I’d look pretty good in oil on canvas, wouldn’t you say?”

Rapunzel giggles, worries melting away as Eugene holds out a hand to help her into the saddle. “Maybe _I’ll_ paint you.”

”That—” Eugene vaults up behind her and reaches around her waist to take the reins, and she blushes as his chin brushes her hair “—sounds like an excellent idea, Sunshine.”

He clucks at Max, and the stallion lurches forward with another snort and a resigned _swish_ of his creamy tail. Rapunzel grips the saddle with both hands, quivering with excitement as Eugene steers them out of the sheltered ravine.

She spent her whole childhood gazing down at this small, hidden valley. When she left it for the first time, cringing and terrified but _determined_ to see the floating lights, to know, to _understand,_ she had imagined coming back with curiosity sated to spend the rest of her life safe inside her tower.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Has it really only been a week?” she murmurs. They reach the crevice in the ravine walls, and she lifts her hands to part the thick curtains of ivy that hide her childhood home from the outside world. Eugene hunches down to avoid bumping his head on the low-hanging rocks, his breath puffing warmly against his shoulder.

“Longest week of my life.” He chuckles.

“Mine, too.”

And then they’re out. And then they’re _free,_ in the rain-soaked expanse of the open forest. Rapunzel closes her eyes as she leans back against Eugene, feeling his heartbeat through her shoulder and his breath stirring the gossamer strands of her short hair; she breathes in the glorious fresh smell of wet soil and fragrant wildflowers and sunlight. Pascal churrs contentedly, nestling into the crook of her shoulder, and Eugene orients them toward the northwest, down the mountains, down to the sloping plains of Corona, down to the island city of Herzingen; toward the palace, toward her parents, toward _home._

It’s terrifying.

It’s _exhilarating._

 _Now,_ Rapunzel thinks. _Now is when my life begins._

## ❦

The wheel of a farmer’s cart clatters through a puddle, and Cassandra yelps as the cold spray soaks her skirt. She whips around, snarling, “ _Watch it!,_ ” but the driver doesn’t even spare a glance. His back wheel hits the same dip in the uneven cobbles of Osiander Street, and Cassandra skitters out of the way. “—are you _blind_ —”

But the cart just rolls splashily on. Muttering darkly, Cassandra clutches her satchel to her chest as she waves through the sparse morning crowd, trying not to drench her shoes—more—in the waterlogged street. Her petticoat clings to her ankles with sodden, itchy persistence.

Herzingen wallows in its usual post-celebratory haze: gutters clogged with the cadaverous pulp of paper streamers and confetti melted by the rain, the gold-and-purple festival banners drooping damply as the street cleaners tear them down. The tattered storm clouds belch out a half-hearted encore, a tepid _drip-drip-drip_ which glues her frizzing curls to her cheeks. A fishy breeze wafts over the shoppers as they shuffle from stall to storefront to stall again with the soporific tedium of business-as-usual and even the clangor of the temple bells a few streets over sounds wan, a listless call to the morning convocation.

Cassandra keeps her head low as the street begins itsgentle incline. The faint heat of her pastries radiates through the worn leather of her satchel and seeps into the clammy, feverish air; sweat oozes beneath her stays and trickles into the small of her back.

_Disgusting._

The palace rears from the island’s summit, its imposing walls and soaring towers stark against the gloomy sky, pristine and untouched by the dismal midsummer miasma. Osiander Street sweeps her up to the front gates, where she nods to the guards posted in the gatehouse before veering away, following the curve of the lime-washed walls until she arrives at the postern.

It’s an incongruous, dingy grey, the old white paint peeling away from the postern door to reveal the dark oak beneath. It groans as she pushes it open, and swings closed behind her with a ponderous _cre-ee-eak,_ shutting her into the tidy quadrangle behind the servants quarters. Cassandra splashes across the soggy lawn to let herself into the sweltering, stuffy, crowded back end of the palace.

At least it’s dry. That’s the only good thing that can be said of it.

Fatty candles burn at intervals along the drab stone walls, greasing the air with an unpleasant tallowy smell. A muffled clangor bounces down from the kitchens upstairs as the preparations for breakfast get underway, and the corridors swarm with palace maids bustling along with brooms and mops and rags and their sundry other weapons in the endless war against aristocratic grime. Cassandra squeezes between them with muttered apologies until she breaks through into the quieter hallways of the barracks, where she has room for a more purposeful stride.

She stops outside the commander’s office and cocks her head, silent. On a typical morning she can overhear the tail end of her father’s daily briefings, or when she’s running late the quiet rustle of paper or _thump-thump_ of his private pacing; today, though, her father’s voice sounds gritty with exhaustion as he says,

“—have to call off the search for Rider.”

“But, sir, the tiara—”

“Our forces are already stretched thin, lieutenant. Throwing ourselves into a manhunt for a thief who’s already—” his teeth grind together loudly “—escaped us twice, while these _lunatics…_ ” A dull _thud._ His fist against the desk, maybe. Her father sighs. “I’ll… explain the situation to the King. The lives of our men matter more than jewels.”

“…Yes, sir.”

Cassandra tucks herself against the doorframe, her ear against the door. Her heart batters itself against her ribs. Papers shuffle; then the familiar sound of her father’s heavy leather boots against the flagstones. Pacing.

“What a _mess._ ”

“Sir?”

A muffled groan. She’s heard it thousands of times; she can _hear_ her father dragging his hand across his face halfway through. “Send a pigeon to Anbruch,” he grumbles. “If Captain Reis hasn’t already recovered the body, tell him to leave it alone. Don’t want the crime scene disturbed before we can examine it ourselves. We need to get on top of this one, Falke. It… bodes.”

“Of course, sir.”

_The body?_

“Then take… Officers Gautier and Braband and get down there as fast as you can. Until further notice this is our top priority.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

Cassandra bolts around the corner, pressing her back into the rough stones once she’s out of sight, and grips the strap of her satchel tight enough to make her knuckles ache as she listens to Lieutenant Falke limp out of her father’s office and up the corridor. Her stomach churns. _The body. The_ body _._

 _Who_ —

She shies away from that question and collides with another thought, oozing up like pitch from the greedy crevices of her mind. _Our forces are stretched thin._ She knows opportunity when—

_Don’t. What an awful thing to—_

Her better judgment wages a fierce battle against raw self-interest and dies, sputtering on the spit of ambition. Cassandra rakes her hands through her curls, breathing out sharp disgust with herself, and then smooths her hair, plasters a bland expression onto her face, and strides back around the corner to rap smartly on the office door.

The silence on the other side is brief and heavy.

“Come in.”

Papers strew her father’s desk. The contents of a gutted file; as she steps inside, he shuffles them into a haphazard stack and pushes them to one side, next to his crested bronze helmet. His thinning brown hair is mussed, half matted to his head and half sticking up at odd angles. Cassandra glances past him to the old map of Corona that dominates the back wall of his office. Pins bristle out of it: dull greys marking misdemeanors, bright yellows for felonies, and crimson for crimes linked to the Separatists.

She identifies the new one immediately. Scarlet, gleaming; a droplet of blood at the furthest tip of the long spur of rock that thrusts out from the coast a few miles south of Anbruch. _Janus Point._

The back of her neck prickles.

“…Cassandra,” the Commander says, a weary greeting. Lines of stress carve up his face, making him look much older than forty-six, and the heavy bags under his eyes speak of a sleepless night. “Good. Saves Pete the trouble of fetching you.”

“Hi, Dad.” She drops into one of the stools in front of his desk. “Long day?”

“And only eight o’clock.” His stab at humor falls flat as he grips the arms of his cushioned chair, dragging himself down into it with a grunt. “There was an… incident, last night. One of the officers of the Anbruch City Watch failed to report in after his shift, and he was found dead by his relieving officer at approximately half two this morning. A bird arrived from Captain Reis around five o’clock.”

“Murder,” Cassandra surmises.

He tips his head in affirmation. “The body had been… mutilated. Reis believes the culprit has Separatist ties.”

 _Of course._ Her gaze slides back to the new pin, and then on to the narrow window set into the next wall. It’s open, despite the continuing rain, and moisture beads on the warped sill. “The killer left a message?”

That’s the only reason her father would have _fetched_ her. She’s one of a handful of people in Herzingen fluent in Saporian, and the only one willing to lend her skill to the King's Watch.

“…Yes.” The Commander pulls a grey scrap of paper from his pile and flattens it out on the desk between them. “Reis recognized the language as Saporian, but none of his men can read it.”

It’s crumpled, damp, the ink fuzzed and bleeding from rain; but the hasty scrawl is legible enough. Cassandra pins the paper beneath her thumb and forefinger and leans closer to read. “It… means ‘Now you'll bleed, as we've bled.’ Th- they left this with the… body?”

Helpless anger darkens his face. “Apparently, they carved it _onto_ the body.” Cassandra shudders, sliding the scrap back across the desks, and he sighs as he returns it to the file. “Not as… enlightening as I’d hoped, but thank you, Cassandra.”

She nods, unsettled. The messages left behind by the Separatists of Saporia are normally more straightforward than this, if lengthier. Rambling screeds nailed to the doors of ransacked buildings, decrying Corona’s endless evils and railing against the king, the aristocracy, and her father. Sometimes they leave cryptic directions to their meetings, and her translations lead to raids and arrests. This… feels different. _Wrong._

“I could ask around. See what… people’ve heard.”

She expects a brusque dismissal. Another entry in his long series of _no, Cassandra, you’re not ready_ lectures. Cassandra has never volunteered much information about the other Saporians living in Herzingen, and her father has never asked; she’s always gotten the impression that he doesn’t like to think about it. All the more reason for him to refuse.

Instead, he gazes at her for a long, long moment before he heaves a gravely sigh and mutters, “I can’t stop you from… chit-chatting, Cassandra. If you hear any rumors that seem relevant, I’d love to hear them. But—” _there’s_ the stern frown “—I don’t want you treating this like an investigation, do you understand?”

“Dad—”

“You are my translator.” He taps the papers, and Cassandra winces. “But you are not a member of the King's Watch, and as such you aren’t authorized, and I _cannot_ authorize you, to investigate criminal activity on our behalf.”

 _He brought it up this time, not me. So it’s fine._ Cassandra squares her shoulders, lifting her chin, and adopts her most reasonable tone. ”Dad— _sir._ I’ve met every physical benchmark, I helped _write_ the written exam, and I train longer and harder than some of your actual—”

”Cassandra—”

“—recruits, _despite_ the fact that I have to fit training around my work in the palace. No matter how you see me, sir, I’m not a little girl anymore, and I haven’t been for a long time. I’m ready for the guard.” The desk between them is a battlefield, she the invader, he the besieged; and Cassandra sinks into this old stalemate almost by rote. ”Besides—you already have problems covering every post, and this investigation will stretch your men even further. You don’t want me on this case; that’s fine. You wouldn’t put a probationary officer on a Separatist investigation anyway. But you do need _more guards,_ and I’m qualified for that, sir.”

“Sweetheart, now is not a good time—”

“When is it ever a good time?!” _Don’t raise your voice._ Cassandra grips a fistful of her skirt as she tamps the anger down, dredging a calm mask out of the swamp of her ire. “I’ve been waiting for a ‘good time’ for four years, sir. Anyone else with my level of skill and dedication would have been welcomed in when they turned eighteen. If there’s a real reason you won’t give me the same chance, I think I deserve to hear it.”

“Cassandra—”

“You can’t protect me from everything forever, Dad.”

His face hardens into gruff unreadability. Cassandra stares back, striving for calm self-assurance. She’s _right._

“…Listen, Cassandra…”

The Commander rubs his chin, pinches the bridge of his nose, and rifles a hand through his hair. Cassandra raises her eyebrows, silent, _listening._ “I am asking you,” he says at length, voice rough, “to trust me. There are other circumstance that you aren’t—”

“ _What_ circumstances?”

“Sweetheart—”

“ _No!_ ” She shoves her stool away from his desk and prowls away, not caring that it signals a retreat, a loss, a _tantrum_ instead of a reasoned argument. Her anger _scorches._ “No, I’m tired of getting waved away with vague excuses, Dad. ‘Now isn’t a good time, Cassandra.’ ‘There are _circumstances,_ Cassandra.’ ‘Just wait a little longer, _Cassandra!’_ I want you to _tell me_ why you don’t think I deserve a chance!”

“Cassandra, _honey_ —”

“What more do I have to _do_ to prove myself?!”

Silence. _Silence,_ with claws. The muffled noise of life on the palace grounds drips in with the drizzle; her father looks stricken, but after a moment his eyes shutter and he sets his jaw.

Cassandra turns away, grinding her fist into her midriff. Paper rustles behind her. She glowers at the rack of shields set next to the door: rows of yellow Coronan suns painted over lilac fields, lacquered and polished to a dull sheen, battle-scarred beneath the gloss.

All she wants—all she’s _wanted_ for as long as she can remember—is to follow her father into service with the King’s Watch. Give her life to the protection of her country. Make him proud. Prove her loyalty.

She’s been training with the sword since she was _six._ She’s competent or better with every other weapon in the arsenal. She knows every rule of conduct and investigatory procedure by heart, every beat for every constabulary in the city, every weakness in the palace defenses and every post for the royal guard. She even knows the perilous labyrinth beneath Herzingen better than anyone in Corona, because she’s been braving their traps and pitfalls to explore them for years.

She’s _ready._ Her father raised her ready, and now—

“If you want to help…” Every word ground out through his teeth. More rustling, and when she glances mulishly over her shoulder she finds him holding out a tall stack of papers. “This is our weekly post. Most of it’s non-essential, and I know it isn’t the most… glamorous assignment, but I trust you to handle it.”

Cassandra stares at it, sullen. A pile of irrelevant work to mollify her until the next time this argument rolls around; still. Better than _nothing._ She swallows her pride, and takes the offering.

“It’s not just about ‘helping.’ You know that, right?”

His eyes go bleak as she tucks the papers into her satchel, and Cassandra wonders bitterly whether it’s because he doesn’t like this argument, or if he’s imagining _her_ corpse with words carved into it by Separatist maniacs.

Maybe both.

He says, “I know, Cassandra. Believe me, I know that these… half measures are not what you want. But I need you to be patient for just a little while longer. Please.”

“It would be easier if you just explained _why,_ sir.”

But he shakes his head, and when it becomes clear no such explanation is forthcoming today, Cassandra smothers a dispirited sigh and mutters, “I’ll get these letters out, then.”

 _It’s not fair._ She fishes one of the pastries out of her satchel and drops it onto his desk, not in any mood to share breakfast with her father _now,_ and skulks out of his office. _If I were anyone else—_

_Then again, when has my life ever been fair?_

## ❦

It’s quiet under Herrfeld.

Not _silent._ Grit crunches beneath Varian’s boots as he jogs down the dusty tunnel. Water drips from a leaking pipe somewhere close, and the percussive jangle of scrap metal in his backpack echoes in the darkness. But compared to the early-morning bustle of the village market about a quarter mile above his head, the tunnels are quiet.

They’re abandoned, except by him, and he’s not sure of their original purpose. Old mine shafts maybe. There’s closed-up silver mines all over the Pingoras and as far as he knows they might stretch as far north as Anbruch and its constellation of nearby villages; these tunnels do _look_ like he imagines a mine should. Dirt walls, patches of rough, bare stone, wooden struts spaced every ten or so feet.

Glow-worms coat the ceilings and walls, and their faint, greenish light softens the pitch black into a mere gloom just bright enough to find his way. They don’t do anything to ward off the damp, underground chill, but Varian has a solution for that.

He grins to himself, breaking into the awkward, loping gait that the other village kids like to tease him about even though it’s both faster than jogging and easier to sustain than an outright run. His wrench bangs against his thigh, bouncing on the end of the loop that secures it to his belt.

What he _does_ know about these tunnels is they form a maze of hollow passages spanning the entire breadth of Herrfeld, accessible by several trapdoors and an outlet by the northern bank of the Nathair, which is where he’s headed now.

He found the tunnels—four years ago, now? He’d been even smaller then and more prone to charging headlong into trouble, and one day he’d snuck into an abandoned old steading on the village outskirts, clambered down through a gap in the rotting floorboards into the cellar where one of the trapdoors sat, moldering and slick with grime. When he pried it open and looked into the deep, icy darkness below, he had lost his nerve, and run back home to think about it more—and think, and think, and pace around muttering himself, because even at ten that had been his habit when he really needed to chew over something before _deciding._

In the end, Varian had snuck a lantern, a rope, and some chalk out of the toolshed while his Dad was out tending the orchard the following morning, and he’d snuck down into the depths to explore.

It took him a year to map the tunnels. They don’t seem to _lead_ anywhere, but some of them lead to slumped piles of rock that look like old cave-ins, and the southernmost tunnel ends in a flat, solid brick wall that Varian spent a month prodding at and sometimes hitting with a shovel until he _knew_ he wasn’t imagining the echo he kept hearing on the other side; it’s hollow, and the tunnel extends beyond it. His efforts so far haven’t uncovered any hidden mechanisms to open the wall yet, and while Varian is sure he could blow it up or take a spade and dig around it, he’s less confident in his ability to keep the ceiling from collapsing on his head while he does so, so for now, the tunnel beyond remains a mystery.

_Problems for later, Varian. Let’s focus. One thing at a time._

The _point_ is the tunnels span all of Herrfeld and give him easy access to the fast, deep waters of the Nathair, and _that’s_ what he needs to fulfill his ambition of providing his village with running water. _Hot_ running water.

He’s built the boilers already, and the system of pipes that will connect them is steadily taking shape. He spent most of last week cobbling together a spigot near one of the trapdoors, to prove the concept to Dad when it’s ready, and he’s been making slow progress on the pump that will draw water from the Nathair and send it flowing through the pipes, pass it through the boilers, and then force it up to the houses of the village once they’re hooked into the pipes.

Heating the water will be another problem. He’s been experimenting with mixing solutions to produce heat, but the formula for a consistent, controlled reaction still eludes him and his eyebrows have been growing in funny since his latest explosion. But that’s a bridge he’ll cross later, as Dad is fond of saying, and right _now_ his first challenge is to get the pumps working. Running water first, heat second.

Varian rounds the last turn, and as the pinprick light at the mouth of the tunnel comes into view forty or so feet ahead of him, _something_ pulls him up short. He stops, his heartbeat deafening in the abrupt absence of other movement, and squints into the gloom ahead.

People in the village talk sometimes about intuition, gut feelings; about how sometimes you can just _know_ something bad is going to happen because you feel it in your bones or your stomach or your skin, but Varian has never put much stock in the idea. There’s _always_ a reasonable explanation. When he’s afraid, he prepares as best he can and forges ahead and it’s _fine._

He conquered his fear of the tunnels with light and rope and symbols chalked onto the walls to help him keep his sense of direction in the dark.

But this—

There’s a- a _sensation_ in the air, a… _prickle_ in the hot draft of summer air rolling down the tunnel. Varian stands rigid, gaze fixed on the small point of light that marks the exit. Some sort of pollen in the air, maybe? He might be experiencing an allergic reaction. It doesn’t seem _likely_ —he’s never had problems with hay fever before and it’s the wrong season for it anyway—but with the way his face tingles…

… _No_. It’s not… _physical._ It’s more like the _memory_ of a feeling, a dreamlike sensation happening in his _mind_ , not his body. Varian peels off one of his thick leather gloves and holds out his hand, palm facing the exit, and he feels it again. A weird… vibration. Like the ghost of a static shock.

Frowning, he jams his hand back into his glove, wishing Ruddiger had come with him today. The raccoon’s reaction to _whatever this is_ might tell him more about… whatever it is.

But he’s not going to figure it out by standing here in the dark. Varian takes a deep breath and begins to inch forward again. It doesn’t grow _stronger_ as he moves closer and closer to the misty sunlight pouring into the tunnel, but it becomes… clearer. Like something far away coming into focus through a telescope.

_Humming._

It’s a _hum,_ so low and quiet he _feels_ it instead of hearing it.

Curiosity eats the last of his caution and he jogs the rest of the way, tugging his goggles onto his face just in case anything blows up. His nerves buzz as he reaches the exit and bounds outside to see what on _earth_ is making that noise—

—and yelps a curse Dad would ground him for as the brilliant sunlight sears his retinas and the whole world erupts into a fiery _white_. Varian clamps a hand over his eyes and swears again, blinking away tears and bruised afterimages. _Rushing, stupid,_ stupid _—_

His streaming eyes adjust after a count of twenty, and Varian adjusts his goggles, kicks his embarrassment away, and looks around.

There’s the half-finished pump squatting by the river, whose placid surface belies the swift current beneath. There’s the old trees crowding either side, and the silty mud and smooth pebbles that line the bank. Varian scans the area three times, searching for anything _changed_ from the last time he made it out here a week ago, and when he finally spots it—across the river, hidden in the underbrush—he almost dismisses it out of hand.

Rocks don’t _hum._

But Varian is an alchemist, and alchemists _explore._

There’s a footbridge a quarter of a mile upstream. It takes him a few minutes to jog up the the river bank, and longer to pick his way back through the more overgrown forest on the other side. The hum is definitely more… _there_ on this side of the river, and Varian crashes eagerly through the trees, aiming for the shadowed hollow where he saw the—

The rock.

It thrusts out of the ground at a slight angle and comes to a sharp point at about waist height. Black, with a glossy, glasslike texture; where the sunlight falling through the canopy hits it, thin veins of a dark blue color glint against the blackness.

He tugs off one of his gloves again and touches it. It’s _warm,_ and feels almost… slick? beneath his fingertips, as if it’s coated in oil, though his hand comes away dry. When he raps his knuckles against the smooth surface, it makes a quiet keening sound like wind blowing over a hole in the ground; an eerie, melodic whistle.

_Fascinating._

Varian crouches in front of it, muttering, “What _are_ you?”

It doesn’t answer. Because it’s a _rock. Keep it together, Varian._

He knocks on it a few more times, listening for variations in the notes it produces. Maybe it’s hollow, honeycombed inside, and the impact of his hand forces air through those holes? But there’s no gap in the exterior surface to peek through, so Varian sets that hypothesis aside and moves on to taking measurements: circumference of the base, distance from the tip to the ground, jotting the numbers down in the grubby notebook he always carries in his trouser pocket.

Then he flips to a new page and sketches it, trying to capture the spidery patterns of the blue veins. They spiral around the rock in an intricate, dizzying fractals and trying to follow their individual lines make his eyes _ache._

Once he’s satisfied with his drawing, he unhooks his wrench from his belt and takes a whack at it, intending to chip off a sample so he can bring it back to his lab and see what he can figure out by exposing it to his library of alchemical recipes.

It lets out a shrill, piercing, hollow note that rattles his teeth and makes his ears ring, and he drops the wrench with a hiss of pain as the aftershock of the blow stabs into his wrist. Nothing else happens. The rock just _sits_ there, completely undamaged.

“A- a-alrighty, then.”

He scoops up his wrench and wedges it around the tip, trying to snap the rock at its thinnest point using the wrench as a lever, but that doesn’t accomplish anything but hurting his wrist more. The wrench doesn’t budge until it slips and flies out of his hand, narrowly missing his head. Undeterred, he retrieves it and attacks again, gouging at glossy surface with the blunt tips of the wrench’s head.

It doesn’t even _scratch._ So he grips the rock with both hands and tries to _shake_ it, and then when it doesn’t budge, he squats down to dig a hole at its base, trying to figure out how far down it extends. When it’s deep enough for him to push his whole arm into it, with still no end in sight, he gives up.

Groaning, Varian rocks back on his haunches, massaging his aching hand.

“Okay. Okay. Okay, so. You’re a big, unbreakable, rock. Which hums. And you weren’t here a week ago. That’s… unusual. But that’s fine, that’s good, we like unusual, unusual means…” He _refuses_ to feel uneasy. There’s _always_ an explanation. “Unusual means we run more tests and experiment until we figure it out. Unusual means we need a… a hypothesis.”

The hum seems to deepen. His face tingles.

“Some sort of fast-growing crystal. Is that what you are? Crystals… form from liquids, heat, pressure, and I… don’t know what kind of phenomenon could’ve created _you_ in a week, but…” He shoves his goggles back up his forehead and leans in for a closer look, his nose smudging the gloss. “… _hm._ Could you’ve been growing here for a long time without me noticing?”

That makes sense. If the volume of the hum correlates to the rock’s size, it follows that a smaller rock should produce a weaker sound, one he might not have noticed from across the river until it grew larger. Combined with how well the rock blends into the shadows—

“Though that’s strange, too,” he mutters. “You _shouldn’t_ blend in.” Its sharp, hard black lines should have stood out in the dappled greenish-gold shadows of the forest. But maybe the glossy surface reflects the light like a mirror, camouflaging the rock from a distance?

_So much to study._

He’ll have to start checking this spot regularly, so he can monitor whether the rock—crystal?—grows any bigger. Weekly. _Daily,_ if he can get away from the farm that often. And if he can’t bring the rock to the lab, well, he’ll just have to bring his lab to the rock.

Grinning, Varian bounces to his feet and spends a few minutes combing the undergrowth, searching fruitlessly for any others. _None._ It’s just this… one, singular, bizarre spear of black rock sticking up between the trees.

_Fascinating. And, okay, maybe a little creepy._

“I’ll be back,” Varian promises it, as he settles his backpack onto his shoulders again and wipes his muddy hands off on his trousers. “Just you wait. I’ll figure you out.”

Then he troops off, back to the footbridge and his half-finished pump.

He’s made it to the footbridge when he thinks, _Should I tell Dad?_

Dad doesn’t talk about his past much, but Varian knows they aren’t from around here. Nobody in the Anbruch area has a family name like _Kardossh,_ and sometimes the older villagers will make references to Quirin’s arrival in Herrfeld a few years before Varian was born. So, Dad is from somewhere else, somewhere far away, and he might have seen something like this rock before. Travelers always see more of the strangeness of the world.

Then again, Dad _never_ talks about his life before Herrfeld. Varian’s knowledge of Dad’s history begins the day Quirin met his mother at the market in Anbruch; not a single day before. And Dad isn’t… _enthusiastic_ about Varian’s interests. He disapproves of all the experiments, the need to _discover_ —of alchemy in general, because it’s “dangerous.”

 _No,_ Varian decides, as he trots back to his water pump and cracks his knuckles, preparing to set all his questions aside for now and focus on his work. _I’ve got to figure this out on my own._

## ❦

The _Zampermin_ creaks as she rocks in the calm waters off the Saporian coast. Moira Caine vaults down from the elevated prow, loping across the deck to help Pocket tip the pilot ladder over the side—it unfurls with a long noisy rattle—and then drapes herself over the port rail, drinking in the view of _home._

Alcorsīa huddles agains the coast like it’s trying to crawl into the water and swim away. Dilapidated houses crowd up against the maze of warehouses and derelict piers clogging the waterfront. Gulls swarm in the salty air, flecks of circling white at this distance, their squalling lost to the breeze. The port’s deserted as ever; besides a handful of local boats, the sprawling wharf is vacant.

Aunt Neasa raised her on stories of the grand old days when Alcorsīa thrived and merchant ships from all corners of the world brought their trade to her vibrant harbor, but those times are long over now.

Sahane Mosel’s sloop peels out of the harbor as she watches, gliding toward the _Zampermin_ with her snow-white sails snapping in the breeze; Mosel herself stands at the prow, identifiable even from a mile away by the garish crimson of her coat.

While the rest of the crew mills over the deck in idle restlessness and the sloop cuts across the water with a speed even the _Zampermin_ couldn’t match, Pocket sidles closer, combing strands of his greasy black hair out of his eyes. “About this plan of yours—”

Moira elbows him, and he shuts up. “I ever let you down before?”

“Well, no,” he murmurs.

“It’ll work. Don’t you worry.”

He grimaces but doesn’t push it, and Moira hums to herself as she turns back to watch the sloop closing the distance; her hand lifts in a lazy wave, which Mosel returns with verve and a bellow of, “Hoy! Fine day for a landing, eh, Caine?”

Her voice is rich and deep and _sharp;_ like honey cut with salt. Moira grins.

“Always, with you around.”

Mosel booms out a laugh as her sloop comes abreast of the _Zampermin,_ and she takes a running leap onto the pilot ladder and scrambles up to the deck of Moira’s ship. “Flatterer. Evenin’, Halloran.” She claps Pocket’s shoulder, nearly sending the scrawny man flying into the rigging; Alcorcia’s pilot is a giant of a woman, towering over Moira, her shoulders always seeming one flex away from bursting the straining sleeves of her frilly coat, and half the time it seems like she lives in blissful ignorance of her own enormity. “Welcome home, Caine.”

“Mhm.”

Her face splits into a crooked grin as Moira clasps her hand; she has the kind of long, severe features that might look regal if it weren’t for her twice-broken nose and the thick, purplish scar that cuts across the right side of her face, puckering the weatherbeaten brown skin of her cheek; a relic of what Moira assumes must be some embarrassing and thoroughly _mundane_ accident given the wild tales Mosel tells about it.

“Good haul, I trust?”

“Plenty.” Moira smirks, and Mosel slings an arm around her shoulders and steers them both up the steps to the aft deck. “Couple merchants. Got an Ingvarrian trireme coming out of the Hvassjarn Sea.”

Mosel whistles appreciatively as she prods Renard away from the helm. “They give you any trouble?”

“Nah.” Moira slips away to lounge against the taffrail, watching while Mosel whistles her signals to the crew and begins to steer the _Zampermin_ into port. “Did have a close call with the Equisian navy, but those overgrown frigates can’t keep up with the _Zampermin._ ”

“How about that storm last night?”

“Nothing she couldn’t handle.”

They drift sedately into port on a quarter sail while Moira rattles off an abbreviated account of their past two months at sea; a little smuggling, a lot of piracy, two big storms, and their usual stopover in Vacona to sell off most of their pilfered treasures.

Once they’re in shouting distance of the pier Mosel presses her fingers to her lips and gives a shrill whistle for her berthing crew. Ropes _swish_ through the air, and the _Zampermin’s_ crew scuttles over the deck to secure the moorings and pull up the sail as Mosel’s people pull them home.

Moira stretches her arms over her head with a satisfied grunt as Pocket drops the gangplank and her crew gets to work unloading the cargo they picked up in Vacona. Mosel fires off a lazy salute before she disembarks by slinging herself over the taffrail and landing catlike on the pier; as she straightens up and dusts herself off, she calls, “I’ll fetch the harbormaster, mm? Get all this sorted?”

“Tell him he gets Pocket today,” Moira drawls, sauntering down the gangplank. “Fun as this is, Mosel, I’ve got other places to be.”

“Oh-ho- _ho,_ really! Well give my love to your wenches—”

Moira aims a swipe at the pilot’s elbow, but Mosel dances away with a playfully salacious leer. “It’s business tonight _,_ you _swab_ —”

“—oh, _sure_ —”

“—and wenches tomorrow.” Mosel guffaws, and Moira, rolling her eyes, waves idly over her shoulder and leaves her to it.

The setting sun spills over her shoulder and onto the city, thick and red as she ambles up the pier, and even the screaming of the gulls sounds like a warm welcome after months in the harsh northern seas. She drinks in the smell of brine, the faint stink of tar and drying seaweed and fish, a whiff of Neserdnian spices from the crates coming off the _Zampermin_ when the breeze hits right; and heaves a deep, contented sigh.

_Home._

She shoves her hands in her pockets as she mounts the wharf and saunters south until the shabby warehouses give way to a tighter maze, dingy and dark; the seedy rows of commerce attached to the dying harbor like remoras flitting around the carcass of a shark. Half the buildings here sit grey and empty, boarded up, curtained in dust; shells abandoned and occupied by squatters and smugglers if anyone uses them at all. The bars and bathhouses are the only places doing real business, and even they have a wan, neglected look.

From the outside, nothing much sets Záthelapa apart from the other taverns crammed into this impoverished warren. Candlelight trickles through its grimy windows and the lettering over the door has faded and peeled away so its name half disappears into the sun-bleached wood. Only the bright chatter seeping through the ramshackle facade suggests the place is doing any better than its starveling neighbors.

The cloying smell of sweat and rum and salt rolls over Moira as she slinks inside. Old nets and garlands of shells dangle from the rafters of the drooping ceiling; abstract ripples of blue and grey, green and white flow over the paneled walls. Patrons crowd the narrow tables; hunching over cards and dice or nursing flagons of ale or in the case of one man slumped in a booth near the door slopping out a half-coherent tale of monsters in the deep for a rapt audience of young men and women who Moira would wager have never foot on an actual ship; none of the regulars pay her any mind, and the saber on her hip dissuades any new blood from trying to get her attention.

She procures a flagon of her own and chats for a while with the barkeep before she turns, slowly, to search for her… contact.

He isn’t hard to find. Brooding at a table in the furthest corner, half-hidden behind a drape of old fish nets. The glow of the candles catches his face at a steep angle, casting his already sharp features into sharper relief; his nose cuts the flickering light like a knife.

Two others sit in the shadows behind the nets. One short, a softly rounded figure; the other all long bones and hard edges. Moira studies the trio over the rim of her flagon for a long, thoughtful moment before she moves to join them.

Andrew’s eyes narrow to slits when he spots her. “Caine. You’re _late._ ”

“Winds and tides don’t answer to clocks, Andrew.” She ducks around the netting and drags a free chair out from the table, spins it around, and straddles it with a grin. “And I don’t answer to you. Introduce me to your friends.”

Glowering, Andrew jerks his chin at the portly woman beside him. “Clementine,” he says, as she leans more into the light. Moira would pin her at forty; her hair dangles past her shoulders in thick braids more grey than brown, and her round, freckled face creases with echoes of old scowls and buck-toothed, hungry smiles like the one she offers Moira now. “And that’s… Hawthorn.”

She notes the faint hesitation with interest as she gives Hawthorn a cursory glance. His eyes are a pale, yellowish hazel, jewel-bright in the candlelight; he folds his spindly hands together on the tabletop and tips his head in faint greeting. “Moira Caine. A pleasure.”

“…Likewise.” _Creep._

“Enough chatter,” Andrew says. He folds his hands together, too, and points at her with both fingers. “You got your first payment months ago. Seems like you’ve got nothing to show for it, where we’re sitting.”

Moira smiles, contemptuous. “ _That’s_ what this is about? You think I took your money and ran off to maraud without a care in the world?”

“No honor among thieves,” Andrew mutters.

“It’s one thing to smash a storefront and grab whatever’s on the shelves, honey. This? Takes a little more… finesse.”

“ _Finesse?_ ” Clementine’s voice is a nasal squeal and it sets Moira’s teeth on edge; she schools her expression into lofty boredom and as she endures the lecture. “You hound us for money and produce _nothing._ No plans, no preparations, no _proof_ that you aren’t pocketing the coin and laughing all the way back to your ship. You’re a _pirate._ You can’t expect us to trust you on blind faith.”

“I expect you to trust that _I_ want Frederic out of the picture as much as you do. You’ll get your precious book before midwinter, as promised.”

“Then you can collect the remaining money then, _as promised._ ”

“We agreed _half_ upfront. Last I counted six crowns isn’t half.” Moira takes a long swig of ale and slams her flagon down onto the table, her teeth bared as she rocks her chair forward. “You know the difference between you and me, lady? I’ve got _options._ Corona’s got plenty of enemies and I know a whole _lot_ of people who’d pay out the nose to get their hands on that book—pay a lot more than you can _afford._ ” Clementine’s face pinches inward, and she can _feel_ Andrew’s hard stare burning into her face, but Hawthorn just… smiles, faintly amused. “I’ll do it for less. Because if anyone’s gonna send dear old Fred to the hound, I’d rather keep it… in-house. The Blavenians and the von Kongsburgs don’t _deserve_ it the way we do.” She slouches back, and the front legs of her chair reconnect with the floor with a _clack._ “But if you can’t front the money I need to do this right? I’ll take my business elsewhere. I’m not getting hanged for the joy of doing you a favor.”

Hawthorn chuckles. The other two glare at him, but he leans easily back in his seat, tapping out a quiet pattern on the tabletop. “If the Separatists can’t pay,” he says in his soft, thin voice, “the Syconium will gladly provide.”

He flicks a hand, and a small leather purse slides out from under his palm and across the table. Moira stares at it for a moment, and then at Hawthorn, and then exchanges a glance with Andrew, who looks as taken aback as _she_ is. Gingerly, half expecting something horrible to crawl out of the purse when she touches it, she tugs the drawstring loose and upends the thing over the table.

Coins spill out. Coronan crowns, gleaming gold in the candlelight.

She turns one over between her fingers, then counts all of them back into the purse. _Thirty-two crowns._ Double what Andrew’s crowd offered for this job.

“Since when,” Moira says slowly, “does the Syconium care?”

Hawthorn smiles the smile of a fox casing a henhouse; the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “Always,” he murmurs. “But we are not Separatists, Lady Caine. We have the patience of trees.” His hands splay over the table, and he pushes his chair backwards with a harsh scraping noise that cleaves the background chatter and makes the whole table _still._ He’s taller than his narrow frame should allow, and the fall of candlelight over the loose waves of his hair reveals a coppery orange that does his sallow complexion no favors. “I’ve seen all we need to see, Andrew. You’ll hear from us when it’s time.”

He makes a mocking little bow, brushes past Andrew and Clementine on his way around the table, and strides out of the bar without a backward glance. Andrew scowls after him.

Moira grins. “So. Gonna start taking orders from the barrow-makers next?”

“We don’t take orders from _anyone,_ ” Clementine snaps.

“Uh-huh.” The _Syconium,_ of all things! Snickering, she pockets Hawthorn’s purse and gets to her feet with a languid stretch. “Well, _well._ I think we’re done here. I’ll get that book, Andrew—that’s all you need to know.”

With a sardonic salute, she turns to leave. Andrew’s curt voice stops her.

“Caine.”

He sighs gustily as she swivels around, her eyebrows raised. Andrew scowls as he dips his hand inside his stupid wooly bolero vest and pulse out a purse of his own. “Deal’s still on,” he says, tossing it to her. It clinks satisfyingly when her fingers close around it. “Get _us_ the book—” his muddy green gaze flicks to the door “—and you’ll get the rest.”

Moira cocks out her hip as she works the purse open and makes a grand production of counting the money, which makes Clementine fume and Andrew stare with dull annoyance. Four crowns in small coins. Enough to make the promised half upfront plus a little extra for her trouble. “Good boy. Don’t try this haggling crap with me again.”

The Separatists grimace at her. Moira swings around and strolls out of the tavern, her pockets jingling. The fresh sea air washes over her as she emerges into the gloaming, and she grins into the embers of the sunset.

_This is going to be so much fun._


	3. Chapter 2: Doldrums

###  **Chapter Two: Doldrums**

Working as a maid, her life doesn’t vary much even in the somber backwash of the Lantern Festival. Seven years of variations on a theme: she rises early, steals time on the training grounds and cleans her modest collection of weapons during her dawn hours before she strolls down to the market to pick up breakfast for herself and her father; eavesdrops shamelessly on his morning briefings, and then spends the rest of her day scrubbing on the front lines of Mrs. Crowley’s crusade against filth. By dinnertime she’s always aching and nauseous from lye fumes, but she’ll pick up her broadsword anyway and slip into the labyrinth to practice for two hours in one of its long-abandoned storerooms before she retires for the night. On and on.

And though it stings her pride, the bundle of mail for the King’s Watch offers a welcome break from the monotony. When Cassandra begs off the afternoon to deal with it, Crowley’s expression pinches with displeasure. “I need you in linens.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crowley, but my dad—”

“Your Daddy wants you handling his mail, he oughta hire you for it.”

“I agree, but—”

“ _Hmmph._ ” Her jowls quiver as she glares, but she relents—Crowley always relents—and grumbles, “Fine, crumb-wedge. Take the afternoon. You’ll make it up later, though.”

“I’ll pick up a morning this weekend. Thanks, Mrs. Crowley.”

“Hmph.”

So she retreats, instead of burying herself in laundry. Her bedroom is nice; when she moved out of his quarters four years ago, her father arranged for her to get a live in the barracks in a rare display of favoritism. A warm, fragrant breeze flows through the open windows from the gardens below. Owl shifts sleepily on his perch, warbling a greeting without opening his eyes when Cassandra drops the mail on her writing desk.

She strips off her dress and stays. Slouches into trousers and a loose shirt instead, and pads barefoot to the basin next to the empty hearth to splash water on her face and comb wet fingers through her hair, sighing. Momentary relief from the smothering heat of the summer.

Then she plops down at her desk to tackle the pile.

It’s easy work. Letters for the dovecotes, to be posted to the captains of city watches across Corona. Missives for the constabularies of Herzingen, which she sorts into their own pile to deliver herself later. A fresh batch of wanted posters she’ll pay some of the local children to paste up in the usual spots around the city. Dozens of requests penned by the half-literate citizenry concerning everything from misplaced keys to unpleasant neighbors to complaints about the noise made by the patrolling officers of the night watch; Cassandra sets aside a few actionable requests for her father to review and discards the rest.

She’s halfway through the pile when she finds it.

It’s in an envelope so fine she half expects the paper to disintegrate under her fingers; addressed, in dark red ink and an elegant hand, to _The esteemed Sir Peter Morgenstern, Commander of the Royal Watch and Ward of Corona;_ and the unfamiliar crest pressed into its wax seal depicts a serpent coiled around a cluster of eight tiny stars.

Eyebrows raised, she breaks the seal, and shakes out the letter.

 _Dear Sir,_ it reads,

_I believe it is well known even in the Seven Kingdoms that I am something of an aficionado of historical epistolary. For years it has been a cherished ambition of mine to view a number of famous missives for myself; one such item is the Journal of King Herz der Sonne._

_Doubtless you receive countless requests of this nature—I know many of my fellow bibliophiles have been turned away—and though I am reluctant to trouble you with one more, so strong is my desire that I simply could not live with myself if I failed to ask. Further, while I understand that the Journal’s security is, owing to its extensive maps of the Der Sonne Labyrinth, a matter of great importance, as my interest is of a more sentimental nature, I remain hopeful of your leniency._

_But enough skirting around the matter! I wish to arrange a private viewing of the Journal, in order to read the letter King Herz der Sonne wrote to his lover, the Saporian commander Shampanier, in its final pages. Alleged facsimiles of this letter have been available for many years, but the more I pursue my studies into the Journal, the more convinced I become that these are, if not outright fabrications, at least very poorly copied. They are rife with discrepancies, and with nothing to compare to them but other copies of dubious origin, nobody can say which, if any, reproduces the true content of the original letter. My intention, thus, is to produce a facsimile of my own, whose veracity I and my fellow scholars can trust with absolute certainty._

_Naturally, considering the Journal’s exceptional security requirements, I would welcome the presence of guards inside the archival vault whilst I copy the letter, so you can be assured of my good behavior. I await your response in all eagerness._

_Remaining, Sir, your humble friend,_

_Rosalia Morcant,_

_Her Grace, the Duchess of Quintonia._

Cassandra rolls her eyes as she finishes. _Do they ever learn?_

If her father had opened this letter, he would’ve tossed it into the nearest fire. That’s his preferred method for handling inquiries about the Journal of Herz der Sonne; but Cassandra reaches for her quill and a fresh sheet of her _nice_ paper. She favors a more… direct approach.

 _How to phrase it?_ She twirls the quill between her fingers. _Obsequious concern? Brusque indifference? Veiled mockery? Decisions, decisions…_

She’s… heard of the the Morcants. Their little duchy belongs to the Hĺessian League but does enough trade with the Seven Kingdoms for a cousin of theirs to have attended the Sonnenhaus while Cassandra was a student there; she remembers a plump, perennially red-faced boy full of dreary tales of his mountainous homeland and endless complaints about the heat. Fussy and tiresome, but never unkind.

Humming, she inks her quill.

_Brisk but polite, then._

_Dear Madam,_ she writes,

_It is the strict policy of the Herzingen Royal Archive to allow no private viewings of the Journal excepting in the case of Corona’s own monarchs. Therefore, despite my sincerest faith in your good intentions, I regret that I must decline your request._

_However, the Journal is available for limited public viewings in the Archive during Unification Day on the Ninth of Tárosh. Your Grace is welcome to attend the festivities then, and we would be honored by your presence in Herzingen on that date._

_With best regards,_

_Sir Peter Morgenstern,_

_Commander of the King’s Watch,_

_p.p. Cassandra Morgenstern._

She signs her name with a flourish, savoring the taste of borrowed authority. Being a commoner’s brat among the wealthy and well-bred children who attended the Sonnehaus on their parents’ coin rather than Queen Arianna’s charity had been… its own kind of educational, and she relishes the rare chance to remind someone of more fortunate birth that, yes, the rule of law does still apply even to them.

With a satisfied smile, she seals her reply into its own envelope, adds it to the pile for the dovecote, and moves on to the next item.

## ❦

Sunlight streams through the large windows of the war room and scalds the air inside. Peter cradles his helmet under one arm, rigid in his chair even as he liquefies slowly beneath his gambeson and breastplate. Sweat beads down his temples. He pours all his concentration into keeping a smooth, confident mask bolted over his face while he watches King Frederic put his signature to an edict doubling the penalty for banditry on Corona’s roads.

Not that any of the highwaymen desperate enough to rob carriages in Corona could afford their fines before; like so many of the edicts signed during these meetings, this one is a statement, a scolding, a posture of strength with little real meaning, and it makes Peter uneasy for what he knows is coming.

He isn’t without allies in this, of course. Nigel is a dependable voice of reason where the Saporians are concerned, and on a good day, he can rely on Prince Ludolf, the youngest of the King’s brothers and a rector of the Sunlit Temple, to sway Frederic away from Prince Gilbert’s bellicose advice.

But _today_ of all days, and with Stefan von Kongsburg here—

The King passes the edict over to his steward, and Nigel stamps it dutifully and adds it to the small stack of items for the city criers, then slumps, pulling a damp handkerchief out of his sleeve to mop his brow. “The next item on the agenda, Your Majesty…”

“…Yes,” Frederic rumbles. “The matter of last night’s… incident.” His piercing blue gaze connects with Peter’s, and a faint note of rebuke enters his voice. “Commander?”

Peter clears his throat. _If we come out of this with no declaration of martial law I will count it as a success._ “Our investigation is still in its earliest stage, Your Majesty.”

“Meaning you haven’t found the perpetrator.”

 _It happened_ last night. _Of course we haven’t!_ But Peter spent most of Frederic’s goodwill for the day when he announced that he would end the search for Rider this morning, and he can do nothing but bow his head. “Not yet, Your Majesty. It’ll be a few days, at the least, before our informants in southern Corona can dig up fresh leads; their latest report noted a slight uptick in activity earlier this month, but that’s typical during—”

Prince Gilbert _sniffs,_ loud and affected and rattling with superiority. “So it was your complacence that allowed this to happen, Commander?”

“With all due respect—”

“I’m inclined to agree with His Highness.” Stefan sends Peter a nasty smile over the war table, his beady blue eyes glittering. “You were aware of the Separatists preparing for _weeks_ prior to this killing, and you did nothing?”

Gritting his teeth, Peter says, “Saying that the Separatists _prepare_ for anything is being generous, m’lord. They’re disorganized, angry rabble-rousers, and most of what they do is… pamphlets, graffiti. Shouting in the streets. Some groups are more aggressive than others, but—”

“The fact remains that you failed to anticipate _this,_ ” Gilbert says.

“What would you have us do, Your Highness?” Peter leans forward. “The King’s Watch doesn’t have the men or the resources to track every Saporian with Separatist leanings, and _sympathizing_ with the movement isn’t a crime. We do our best with what we have, and sometimes things slip—”

“That doesn’t inspire confidence in your ability to manage this crisis, Sir.”

“Gilbert.”

The Prince glances sourly at his brother. “Your Majesty.”

“We do everything we can, Your Highness.”

“And if everything the King’s Watch _can_ do is insufficient to quell the this little uprising, then…”

“I would hardly call this an _uprising,_ Your Highness,” Nigel interrupts in his nasal drawl, all fretful semantic concern, and Peter hides a grin. “A few disaffected malcontents—”

“ _Murderers_ ,” Gilbert insists.

“You didn’t answer Sir Peter, brother,” Prince Ludolf murmurs. “It’s easy enough to sneer at the good Commander for falling short of perfection, I’m sure, but what solution _would_ you propose?”

“A firmer hand!” Gilbert cries. “Corona has tolerated these Separatists for centuries, and what happened? Like disobedient children spared of the rod they grow bolder and more defiant by the day. Force is the only language they speak, and it is with force that we _must_ answer.”

“A child speaks his father’s language,” Ludolf says.

“Where’s this soft heart of yours for the innocent young man cut down in his prime by these—”

“ _Gilbert,_ ” Frederic says sharply. Both princes subside into sullen silence, Gilbert’s mouth still twisted in an ugly sneer. Ludolf tugs at the high, golden collar of his billowing temple robes, his lips pressed into a severe line.

“I believe Sir Peter was interrupted,” the rector says, prim.

“Indeed. Commander?”

Peter inclines his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Lieutenant Falke departed for Anbruch with a detachment of our best men this morning. They’ll lead the investigation from there, with support from Captain Reis of the Anbruch City Watch. While we wait for whatever our informants can uncover, the manner in which Constable Patton’s body was mutilated may provide clues—”

“How so?” Nigel asks.

“My understanding is that… dismemberment plays a role in certain… traditional Saporian funeral rites.” Even Stefan pales a little, which makes the discomfort of the explanation _almost_ worth it. Peter adds, “Reis thinks that by matching specific customs to… what was done to Patton, we can narrow down the region where our killer originated.”

“…Ah.”

“How _barbaric_ ,” Ludolf mutters.

“Of course,” Peter adds, struggling to keep his tone neutral and non-defensive, “those old rites are no longer in use. It’s a historical matter—that’s the difficulty in identifying specific practices—but the Separatists often seek to… revive old Saporian traditions, or at least reference them as a way of- of legitimizing their position.”

Frederic’s brows draw together, his eyes dark. “I see.”

“…By… the same token,” Peter continues, fighting the urge to wince, “the location of the murder raises the possibility of an occult motive, and—”

“Occult,” Frederic echoes, in the empty tone Peter has grown so familiar with in the eighteen years since the then-six-month-old Princess Helene vanished from her nursery. He winces. “You’re speaking of magic, Commander.”

“…Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Saporian heresy.” Dull spots of color appear in Ludolf’s pallid cheeks, and Peter grips his helmet tighter—

“Such practices were stamped out decades ago,” Stefan drawls. Amusement glitters in his eyes, floats in the corners of his mouth in a small, unpleasant smirk that makes Peter _ache_ to kick him. “Surely you aren’t asking us to believe in… in Saporian _fae tales?_ ”

Peter breathes out sharply. _Speak the facts and come what may._ “They were _outlawed,_ milord. With respect, that isn’t the same thing. We have evidence that private worship of the- the Saporian _zatoshka_ ” —if Cassandra were here she’d probably laugh herself sick at his butchered pronunciation, and come to that he mightn’t even be using the right word; they all sound the _same_ — “still persists, in secret.”

He meets Stefan’s mocking stare levelly, refusing to blink until Stefan does. Old, old animosity simmers in the air between them.

“…But,” Peter continues, after Stefan looks away, “while Janus Point _is_ an old ritual site, it’s also isolated, and a historical landmark. For the Separatists, that makes it a useful symbol of… lost Saporian power. It may have been chosen as the murder site for those reasons alone.”

Brief, contemplative silence follows this. Then Nigel says, “Might it have been just a crime of opportunity?”

“The state of Patton’s body would suggest otherwise. Impulsive murders don’t methodically butcher their victims afterwards. The use of a garrote, also, points to an experienced killer.”

“An assassin?”

“…I doubt it. Patton wasn’t a high-profile target, and if the Separatists had the resources to hire a professional, I believe they would’ve chosen someone with more… heft.” Frederic blanches, but Peter pretends not to notice. Not much room in an investigation for sugar-coating. “So I’m confident that the murderer is himself a Separatist. The big question is whether he worked alone or in coordination with one of the larger cells.”

“Does it _matter?_ ” Gilbert, again, of course. Peter bites the inside of his cheek to stifle his irritation. “Commander, the longer you treat these Saporian _dogs_ like ordinary criminals, the worse their nascent rebellion will get.”

Ludolf glances at him, face full of the pointed recrimination only a temple man can muster, and says, “Let us not tar all Saporians with the same brush, brother. Many are content to observe our laws and live as true Coronans.”

“Ludolf, if you’re _fool_ enough to believe—”

“Gilbert, _please_.”

“Your Highness,” Peter says, “even the most violent Separatists seldom rise above the level of vandalism and the occasional burglary. They bark much louder than they—”

“It is your _insistence_ on minimizing their threat, Commander, that—”

“With all due respect, _Your Highness,_ treating them as enemy combatants is exactly the kind of provocation that will—”

“ _Provocation?!_ ” Gilbert barks a harsh laugh, slapping his palms onto the war table as he surges forward in his seat, his the dull blue of his eyes blazing with fury. “We speak of murderers, saboteurs, _sorcerers_ —”

“The Separatists represent a _fraction_ of the Saporians in southern Corona, Your Highness; what do you think will happen if we declare _war_ on half the kingdom?”

“If that is what it takes to wipe out the threat, then that is what we must _do._ How many officers will die before you accept what is necessary? Every hesitation will cost more lives in the end, and _you_ —”

“Wars shed more blood than murderers do,” Peter retorts, “and you would do _nothing_ but drive innocent people into Separatist arms.”

“Not so innocent,” Stefan murmurs silkily, “if they would so readily pledge to an enemy cause.”

”Milord—”

“That said, I see no reason to escalate to civil war over so… small a provocation. One insignificant guard is not worth the brutality of a war, on that I concur.” Peter clenches his fingers against the rim of his helmet, _hating_ the Lord von Kongsburg with every fiber of his being. “Even so; Prince Gilbert speaks true. Harsher measures must be taken to quell the threat. A more targeted effort, perhaps.”

“Loyal Saporians should have nothing to fear,” Frederic agrees. “Your daughter, for example, Comm—”

“I would consider it a great favor if we could leave Cassandra _out_ of this, Your Majesty,” Peter snaps. His stomach clenches as it does every time the King mentions—

Ludolf coughs quietly, and the moment is past. “I’m in agreement with Sir Peter in this, brothers. If we sacrifice our compassion on the pyre of our fears, we become no better than our enemies. We must act with reason, not panic.”

“Would you have us passing out pennants to rebels in the streets, Your Highness?” Stefan sneers. “Inviting the Separatists to join hands and sing a little song—”

“I would _have us_ spare the loyal Saporians in southern Corona of the indignities and injustices of martial law, or the brutality of a war.”

Stefan’s lip curls, but before he can deliver whatever venomous rebuke he plans, Frederic says, “That’s _enough._ ” Peter holds his breath; the King rubs his temples in frustration. “We could argue in circles all day without coming to any agreement, gentlemen. Commander Morgenstern, I authorize you and your men to pursue this investigation by any means you think necessary to bring this murderer to justice, and to ensure there is no further violence.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I will declare martial law if—and _only_ if—the situation worsens. For the time being, we will consider this a murder, rather than an act of war.”

“Frederic—”

“I have _made my decision,_ Gilbert.”

His face a rigid mask of disgust, Gilbert sinks back in his seat. By the way his arm moves, Peter can tell he’s thumbing the curved hilt of his Ingvarran shimshir under the table. Stewing, no doubt, on his memories of the Hvassjarn War; when he served in Queen Morgiana’s battalion against Selandian invaders, and commanded his corps unquestioned and free from petty civilian concerns.

But though he scowls, he holds his tongue, and Peter allows himself to relax.

“… _Well_.” Stefan spills the word into the sudden lull like an oil slick, voice dark and self-satisfied. “If that is all settled, Your Majesty, perhaps we can move the discussion to the situation on our northern borders. A subject more in line with Prince Gilbert’s expertise, I wager.”

Frederic throws him a sardonic glance. “Very well.”

With a sanctimonious nod, Stefan begins, “My guards have reported significantly more encounters with King Trevor’s men than is usual, of late; no altercations have yet occurred, but they appear to be scouting—perhaps probing our defenses for weakness, and…”

And he drones on. Peter stares hard at the paneled wall just past Stefan’s shoulder; striving to appear interested in his self-important, long-winded, _pointless_ request to reassign all the extra guards the King’s Watch doesn’t have to Kongsburg so he can station them in his border garrisons. Unlike the Saporian matter, this one poses little risk and no surprises. There will be a token debate, and Frederic will waver, his judgment clouded as it ever is by his personal hatred for King Trevor, and then Peter will rattle off the _math_ and the whole matter will be put to bed without anything having changed.

He bites back a weary sigh. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

## ❦

It takes the better part of the afternoon for Cassandra to run her father’s missives to all of the city constabularies, and the sun is beginning its slow crawl toward the horizon when she strolls up to the cobbler’s shop on Osiander Street. Willipeg & Sons is a small, clean establishment. Wooden planter boxes hang from its exterior, drooping under the prodigious weight of Feldspar’s _enthusiastic_ gardening and making a lush frame for the displays of footwear cluttering the shop windows.

The bells over the door jangle as she pushes her way inside.

“Be with you in just a— ah! Cassandra, what a treat.”

“Hey, Feldspar.”

She grins. Feldspar bobs his head, his attention already glued back on the half-finished loafer he’s sewing together. She won’t get another word out of him until he’s finished, so she props her elbows on the counter next to the register and settles in to wait.

He’s the sole proprietor of the shop, his father having gone to the sunset almost a decade ago and his brothers moved on for greener or at least less shoe-lined pastures; and theirs is… an odd friendship. Cassandra doubts it would’ve happened at all if it weren’t for his habit of keeping the shop open on Unification Day.

She was seven when they met, her adoption by the Commander—then Sergeant—newly minted, and with her father tied up in doubled patrols around the palace, Cassandra had snuck away to enjoy the festivities free from adult supervision. Wandered about with her head so full of fierce, imagined battles and the grand and hopeless declaration of Herz der Sonne’s love that she lost track of where her feet carried her.

So she didn’t notice the knot of older children loitering in the street until she bumped into one. He swung around, snapping, “Watch where you’re _going,_ ” and when he saw how much smaller she was the blaze of ire in his face cooled and hardened into vicious glee.

Or maybe it was just her curls; thick and unruly; her hazel eyes, the sharp jut of the bones in her face. Maybe he would’ve sent a different girl with a different face off with no more than a snarl.

_It doesn’t matter._

He shot out a hand and _yanked_ one of her curls, laughing when she yelped. Said something she doesn’t remember now; and said _the Day of Hearts isn’t for_ you, _you know that right?,_ a comment that baffled her then but which she understands too well now.

The boy was twice her size; stocky, already growing into a barrel chest. This hadn’t stopped her from punching the snub of his nose with all the strength her scrawny, seven-year-old self could muster when he bent down to jeer at her. And the rest is all a haze.

A shove. Burst of light behind her eyes and the _crack!_ when her head hit the cobblestones. _Laughter._ The boy and his friends looming against the harsh autumn sky.

 _You stupid little_ Sap, _I’ll—!_

It would’ve gone a lot worse for her if they weren’t in front of the cobbler’s, if Feldspar hadn’t glanced through his window just then to see what the commotion was about. But they were, and he had, and he charged out of his shop waving a last and a pair of scissors around his head like a madman. Gave the boy and his friends a shrill scolding that Cassandra, lying muddled on the street, barely registered.

She does remember the boy whining, “But she’s _Saporian!_ Mama says they—”

And, “So _what?_ Run home to your mother before I wallop you with a boot!”

They scattered. Feldspar kept waving his tools with a vague angry inertia until Cassandra sat up and spat out a mouthful of the blood welling out of her tongue, which she supposes she must have bitten when she fell. Then he helped her up, and invited her into the shop for a cup of tea— _tea_ being Feldspar’s solution to any problem that can’t be solved by way of a good pair of shoes.

While he fretted and daubed at a nasty scrape on her wrist he told her, in his awkward, fumbling way, that he’s Saporian, too—“On Mother’s side. My grandmother lived down in Charcāthēn until the day the hound took her, rest her soul. Anyway—I’ll just take your measurements and fit you a nice sturdy pair of boots, so if those hooligans bother you again you can give ’em a kick to remember… That’s how we deal with bullies, as Mother would say…”

Bemused, she watched him putter around the shop, muttering and rummaging until he produced a pair of leather boots more or less her size. After an hour he sent her on her way, freshly-shod, her head buzzing from the challenge of holding a conversation in Saporian, then only half-remembered from her life before Herzingen.

A week later she came back, tromping into his shop in her new boots to ask if he had time for more tea. Now it’s something of a standing engagement. Not _regular_ —he has a shop to run by himself, and she’s not any less busy—but frequent. Cassandra stops by when she can, and Feldspar finishes whatever he’s doing, closes up shop for an hour or so, and they share a cup of tea and just… talk. It’s nice. A reprieve from the frantic pace of the palace, and a small pocket of time when being Saporian just feels… normal.

Feldspar mutters a triumphant, “Ah- _ha!_ ” as he ties off the final stitch, breaking her reverie, and for the next few minutes she watches him close. Flurried movement. He locks the door, flips the sign in the window, wipes down all his tools and arranges them in tidy rows on the work bench. Sweeps the floor with exuberance that moves the mess around more than it cleans. Sorts leftover bits of leather and fabric and thread into his scrap drawers. At last he swivels around in the center of the room, examining his wares with a critical eye, and announces, “It’ll _do._ ”

Then, in Saporian, “Care for some tea?”

“That’s the idea,” Cassandra replies dryly.

Falling into Saporian is _easy._ The syllables roll out of her mouth in a melodic rhythm that always feels smoother on her tongue than the hard cadence of Coronan; maybe it’s just that she learned it _first_. From what her father’s told her she only knew a few words in Coronan when he brought her to Herzingen.

As he ushers her into the back, Feldspar chatters about an order for riding boots he received from the palace stablemaster, and the difficulty he had acquiring enough quality leather to fill it without turning a loss on the whole transaction, and Cassandra nods along, inserting sympathetic murmurs of agreement whenever he pauses to breathe and letting him shoo her into one of the half dozen mismatched armchairs that dominate the room.

It’s half a kitchen and half a parlor. Counters line the back wall beside a tiny stove, and there’s a small icebox and a few cabinets packed with tea and cups and… more tea; a rickety spiral of stairs in the corner lead up to his flat, and next to that there’s a lopsided bookcase crammed with treatises on the fine art of shoemaking from, to hear Feldspar tell it, all over the continent.

Invective about the outrageous prices imposed by the Herzingen Tanneries Guild gets the kettle filled and boiling while Cassandra watches—Feldspar never lets her _help,_ when she’s his guest—and Feldspar lays out the tea things. When he’s satisfied he wanders into the circle of chairs and drapes himself into one, hooking his legs over an armrest and heaving a huge, doleful sigh.

“So that’s been _my_ week. How’s yours?”

“Normal,” Cassandra says. “Ambassador from Blavenia’s visiting next week so Crowley’s been more of a terror than usual; she made Johanna _cry_ yesterday. Again. Also…”

Feldspar rolls his head around, peering at her with the keen interest of a bird eyeing an especially juicy worm. “‘Also…?’ Well _do_ tell.”

“An officer was murdered last night, down near Anbruch. Gruesomely. Dad’s investigating it as a Separatist crime.”

He wilts. “Ah.”

“Dad’s… trying to keep a lid on it for now. Avoid— you know. Only reason _I_ know is the killer left a message and he needed me to translate.”

“…A message…?”

“Just a vague threat. Still; everyone in the Watch is on edge today.”

_Now you’ll bleed._

“…Awful,” Feldspar mutters. “ _Horrible._ ”

The kettle whistles. He jolts up to collect it, and Cassandra sighs, letting her head fall back against the headrest while Feldspar prepares the tea. “As if things weren’t bad enough already. Well—” Loud rattle of metal against porcelain. Strainer into the teapot. Water gurgles as he pours. “ _Well._ ”

Moody silence. Cassandra watches through half-lidded eyes as he juggles everything onto a battered tray and shuffles over, nestles it into the seat of a third armchair, and drops into his seat again, twirling one of his fluffy orange curls around his finger.

“Nasty business.”

“Mm.” Cassandra cups her chin in her hand, watching steam curl up from the teapot’s spout. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?” His brothers live further south, and she knows he has cousins in Charcāthēn; though they all keep a safe distance from the Separatists. Most Saporians do. “Rumors, or…”

“Not a _thing,_ ” Feldspar sighs. “So sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Dad’ll… figure it out in the end; he always does.” And if she feels a tiny stab of disappointment at her own failure to glean anything that would make her _useful_ again, well, somethings are better left unsaid. “Thanks anyway.”

“Mhm.” He drums his fingers against his knee a few times and says, “So- _o_. This Blavenian ambassador of yours—what are the odds she’ll be in need of a new pair of shoes?”

Cassandra coughs out a laugh. No one does abrupt, timely changes of subject _quite_ like Feldspar, and she leans forward to help herself to the tea as she replies, “You know they’ve got cobblers in Blavenia too, right.”

“ _Ah,_ but are those cobblers _me?_ No, I think not, so…”

Snickering, she lets herself get drawn into a half-serious debate on the merit or lack thereof of Blavenian shoemakers, content to sip her tea and talk of nothing in particular until dinnertime.

## ❦

The stables smell of hay dust and leather and always have this faint golden glow to them. Cassandra can never figure out if it’s her imagination embellishing a favorite place or just a side effect of how the early-evening sunlight filters through the thick, foggy window panes. Regardless it’s _peaceful,_ and quiet.

Some of the horses nicker greetings or snort inquisitively when she slips inside. Glittering motes of dust drift through the sunbeams falling through the skylights. Cassandra sighs, tension falling out of her shoulders as she shuts the sliding door behind her, and it’s not until she turns around again that she realizes she isn’t alone.

“…Dad?”

He starts. Looks around, looking abashed. For a moment she and her father blink at each other in mirrored surprise.

“Ah— Cassandra, I… didn’t expect…”

His hand rests on the door of the empty stall where Maximus should be, and he shifts from foot to foot in clear discomfort at having been caught in whatever emotional moment he’s been having with his missing horse. Cassandra pads up the aisle to join him. “Mrs. Crowley gave me the afternoon off. Thought I’d take Fidella out for a ride while it’s still light.”

“Right. Right. Of course.” A nerve in his jaw twitches. His eyes waver flicker toward the stall, the vacant shadows; like he’s trying not to look but can’t help it. “Well, then, I’ll… let you get to—”

“I’m sorry about Max, Dad,” Cassandra says.

He freezes. Slowly, his hand falls back onto the stall door, and the stiff awkwardness gripping his face eases into something forlorn. Getting caught red-handed in his feelings always interrupts his efforts to _hide_ them.

“…Yes,” he says, voice rough, after a moment. “So am I.”

An hour after the guards booked him yesterday evening, Flynn Rider escaped _again_ with the help of accomplices who broke him out of the palace dungeons and cleared him a path to the stables. He threw a saddle on the first horse he could reach— _Max_ —and galloped out of the city before any of the guards could recover from the sudden appearances of him and his gang of thugs.

Normally, Cassandra would have every confidence in her father’s ability to catch the thief and bring Max home, but now that he’s pulled his men off the search for Rider to focus on the Separatists instead…

She sidles closer and leans against his arm. “He was a good horse.”

“One of the best the mounted guard’s ever seen,” her father agrees with a hitch in his voice. Then he lapses into silence for a moment, before he swallows loudly and pulls himself together with a low grunt. “Well. You want to ride, don’t let an old man keep you.”

“You’re not _old,_ ” Cassandra scoffs. “And, actually—” She steps away, waggling the pie she picked up on her way back from the Feldspar’s. “Dinner first; open to sharing if you’re hungry.”

An olive branch of her own. An answer to the letters. Her father’s face brightens, real joy sparking in his dark eyes, and, grinning, she jerks her chin for him to follow her to the back of the stables, where bales of hay are stacked up in a few open, unused stalls. Cassandra hops onto one of them, sitting cross-legged, heedless of the prickle of straw through her trouser legs; the Commander unbuckles the strap of his helmet and takes it off with a mutter of satisfaction as he sits down too.

“I would… like to apologize.” He runs his fingertips down his helmet’s crest of stiff red bristles while Cassandra unwraps the greasy butcher paper and carefully pulls their pie in half. A ribbon of steam curls out of the torn crust, and the mouth-watering scent of spiced chicken and potatoes floods the hot, dusty air. “For our disagreement, this morning.”

She shrugs. Neither of them are big on… feelings. Most of the time after an argument they just _move on,_ no need to talk about it first. “Shouldn’t’ve lost my temper.”

“…Still.” Nodding, he accepts his half of the pie. “I understand your frustration.”

“I just wish—” A sudden breach; her heart thumps against her ribs; a spray of buried discontentment. Cassandra stops herself, embarrassed, and picks disconsolately at her pie. _I just wish you_ trusted _me. I just wish I could do_ anything _right for you. I wish—_

“I… know.”

For a few minutes they nibble at the pie, together in unhappy silence; but the prickly tension erodes into peace, and eventually Cassandra sighs.

“…Sorry.”

“I’m proud of you, you know,” her father says.

“You- you are?”

“Yes.” Cassandra stares at him. His jaw works, and he seems to be wrestling with himself over whatever he wants to say. “I always have been. Very proud, to have you as my daughter.”

_Then why don’t you believe in me? Why won’t you give me a chance?_

_Why—_

Biting her lip, Cassandra tucks the bitterness away and says, “Thanks, Dad.”

He clears his throat noisily. “So— where do you plan on taking Fidella?”

 _Thank the stars._ “Down to the north beach. Just for a walk; I know Henrich did some work with her today and I don’t want to wear her out.”

“Good, good. Should be nice… Good breeze off the water.”

“Mhm.”

She uncurls one leg, letting it dangle off the bale so she can thump her heel into the hay, and digs into her pie with more gusto as the atmosphere between them settles into normalcy. Her father isn’t one for idle chatter, but this comfortable silence suits her just fine. They finish off the pie; he bids her a good evening and leaves the stables with one last, mournful glance into Max’s empty stall.

Cassandra crumples the butcher paper into a ball and tosses it into the nearest bin on her way to Fidella’s.

The big bay mare is—strictly speaking, _not_ Cassandra’s horse, but Fidella is the one she’s always, privately, thought of as _hers._ At six, she’s the greenest of the watch horses and still rounding out her training, but she’s bright and calm, and the heft she inherited from her haflinger sire will give her an edge once she graduates into the mounted guard.

Fidella nickers softly as Cassandra clips a lead to her halter; her nostrils flare, blowing a hot, grassy breath into Cassandra’s face. “Hello to _you,_ too.” She strokes the creamy blaze running down the mare’s nose. “Ready to get out of here?”

More nickering. Grinning, Cassandra unbolts the stall door.

Brushing, saddling, bridling; a quick walkaround in the paddock outside before she mounts up. It’s a ritual and it relaxes her as almost nothing else does, second only to working the pell for decluttering her mind. As she steers Fidella through the palace gates and down toward the beach, she feels balanced, poised; at home and at ease.

A refreshing northerly breeze ruffles her curls and fills her nose with the brisk scent of the sea, and Cassandra beams into the sunset.

It’s been a good day.

## ❦

The peatland glistens under moonlight. It’s a sweltering evening, and the stagnant air drips with the vaporous breath of summer; the ragged black lines of the Pingoras against the northern horizon misty through the haze.

They carve a meandering, lethargic path across the bog. Sirin leads; barefoot, clad in short breeches and a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows; her long greying braid scything in her wake. In her left hand she carries a staff: a twisted length of yew with bundles of moldering feathers and withered briars lashed to the top.

Her companion slinks behind her, muddy boots squelching in the muck between clumps of sedge grass. Coppery hair bleached to sallow blond by the moonlight feathers around his head, sticks to his cheeks.

Sirin pauses to push her staff against the dark peat where the sedge grass ends, testing the firmness of the land before she steps, and murmurs, “How did you find them?”

“I liked the pirate.” His words diffuse softly into the mist; the peatland swallowing his voice. “She knows her way about. The others… useful, if aimed well.”

“Just rabble.”

“I know you’d rather not involve them at all.”

They come to the rim of a hollow dip in the bog; where the sedges crawl down in knotted furrows to a small pond. Pitch seeps up through the porous earth and mingles with the bog-water; a polished black mirror beneath the stars, tarnished by irregular crusts of hardened pitch, dull in the moonlight. Acrid fumes wreathe the basin. The stench of tar and vegetative decay coiled together like serpents in a nest.

Sirin sighs, a long low whistle of air through her teeth.

“If you can suggest a better path, Mathan…”

“Regrettably,” Mathan says, dry, “no.”

Shaking her head, Sirin descends toward the pond, Mathan trotting at her heels. Small boulders speckle the basin, sunk deep into the soft peat and slick with wet moss. She passes her staff to him when they reach the water’s edge, and steps onto the nearest crust. It depresses underfoot, softened by the summer heat. Mathan lingers at the edge, cradling her staff in the crook of his arm.

“And how is our dear Constable Patton?” he asks.

“Dead.”

Sirin crouches at the sticky border where the spongy pitch becomes liquescent. Dips into the viscous water welling up between her feet. Her hand comes up coated in glistening blackness.

Mathan laughs very softly. “I almost thought you wouldn’t.”

“Restraint is not the same as hesitance,” she mutters. Whispers of a greenish glow trace her knuckles as Sirin curls her fingers. The slick strands of pitch dripping from her fist curl, rising; seeking like the tendrils of a climbing vine. Tiny hooks like liquid fangs pierce the inside of her wrist, and the darkness slithers in. Her arm twitches. A hiss slips through her gritted teeth. “I— _nn-_ I have always— been committed.”

Her veins crawl with black. A web of coal beneath her skin.

The air crackles. A burning scent edged with acid sweetness, the taste of a storm on the horizon; Sirin coughs, and droplets of black resin mist the air as she rises to her feet, dizzy with power dredged from the earth; power asked and given.

“I’m glad to hear it.” His cruel smirk lingers; he holds out a hand to steady her as she returns, and the virescent light foaming off her stained fingertips glitters in his eyes. “So the kingdom of sunlight will fall on the Sun-Eater’s Night; poetic, wouldn’t you say?”

“I never liked poetry,” Sirin remarks. She collects her staff and strides past him, ignoring the flat, exasperated glance he sends her. “But” —a sharp smile— “I’m sure our Lady appreciates your enthusiasm. Come; there is much still to do.”

His lips twitch. He follows.

Behind them, the black pond gurgles once; and then the night is still.


	4. Chapter 3: Flower Gleam, Flower Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Injuries/blood, mild gore, oblique reference to self-harm.
> 
> (Subscribers: Sorry if you get a double notification on this. AO3 did something wonky idk.)

###  **Chapter Three: Flower Gleam, Flower Bloom**

Rapunzel can see Herzingen from her window.

City streets where the grass should be; the sun, a fire burning black in the pit of the sky; small houses washed in bloody light. There are no mountains beyond the ravine walls, no lush green wood. Nothing but shining, molten, blinding emptiness.

She swims through the gelatinous air to mount the window sill. Its polished wood smolders beneath her feet. Her nose tingles with the smell of burning skin.

Above, the lightless sun spits crimson smoke and golden embers, feathering down. Ash dances in the ponderous breeze, and Rapunzel reaches out, fingers splayed to catch the flakes. Wherever they land, her gown singes, and her flesh chars; but instead of pain, she feels nothing but a faint, unpleasant _itch._

A woman stands in the charcoal streets below, wrapped in a grey cloak trimmed with gold. The cowl shrouds her face in obsidian shadows. She shimmers in the red haze, mirage-like, and when she lifts her head to meet Rapunzel’s nervous stare, her eyes burn like hot steel.

Rapunzel slips. Uprooted from her tower; pollen in the breeze, falling through the billowing smoke—

The stone cobbles crumble to black dust when she alights, and she tumbles through into the glistening web strung below; strands of sticky, glittering diamonds above the fiery heart of the abyss. She burns and the light radiates through her, a scarlet glow broken by the shadow-impressions of bones inside her skin.

“Hello, Rapunzel.”

_Mother._

Fire consumes her lungs and when she tries to scream nothing emerges from behind her lips but flickering traces of gold. Gothel crouches there—skirts swollen into a distended abdomen, limbs twisted and many-jointed—and scuttles _closer,_ a spider on her web. Her flawless alabaster skin withers, sags; peels away to expose festering pink muscle that sloughs away in dribbles of livid, bubbling slime as she looms over Rapunzel in triumph—

—a putrid taste, and cooking _meat_ —

The _thing_ that was her mother squats on her chest. Its jaw dangles from its skull by a few moldering tendons, the engorged tongue lolling and rotten; it combs the shining strands of her hair with its jagged, shattered, covetous hands. “My dear little flower,” it croons. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. But don’t you fret. _Mummy’s here_.”

It clutches her wrist. Shards of bone dig into her flesh, and Rapunzel writhes in helpless, voiceless terror. Blood drips in searing rivulets down her arm, boiling into steam in the inferno of sunlight.

_Flower, gleam and—_

“And we’re going _home,_ Rapunzel. _Now._ ”

— _glow, let_ —

Copper, iron; red vapor taints the air, tinged gold.

— _your power_ —

_Shine._

Rapunzel jerks. A whimper bubbles up against her clamped lips as she grips fistfuls of dewy grass, wheezing through her nose. The sky above is the pale lilac-grey that comes just before dawn, and the rough fibers of Max’s saddle-blanket scratch her cheek. The dream—

_It was only a dream._

—the dream fractures.

Shards of a mirror, raining down.

Quivering, she lifts her head to check on Eugene. He sprawls in the grass beside her, asleep; his mouth slack, soft gurgling snores trickling out of his throat. Pascal naps on his chest, the curl of his tail nestled in the hollow of Eugene’s throat.

Watching them, watching the steady rise and fall of Eugene’s chest, calms her frantic heartbeat. Rapunzel breathes out fire and inhales the cool, damp fragrance of the morning as she sits up.

It’s almost nothing. A soft pulse of pain; a sting of cool air against her wrist. In another mood she might not even have noticed. But she does, and she looks down, and her heart jams itself into her throat.

Gothel’s shackles rubbed her wrists raw yesterday, and when she went to sleep they were inflamed and scratched; _now,_ her left wrist is a mass of pulped skin and drooping coils of— _like the entrails of a bird; like the unearthed roots of a flower_ —white tendrils, slick with blood.

Panic hits her in a boiling, nauseous instant and Rapunzel scrabbles at them with a strangled gasp, ignoring the searing bolt of pain that shoots through her arm as she digs her fingernails in and _yanks_ the tendrils, _rips_ them out of her flesh one by one while her wrist drips blood and hot, reflexive tears stream silently down her cheeks.

One more jerk of her fist, and the last coil tears free.

Shuddering, Rapunzel lapses into the pain, cradling her wrist. A sob hitches in her throat; she grits her teeth against it.

_Just breathe, just breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe—_

When Rapunzel was five, she burnt her fingertips on the kettle while making Mother her tea; and Mother taught her how to take slow, deep breaths to quell the pain enough so she could sing to heal herself.

Her hair is gone now, but she stutters her way into the old, familiar rhythm. _Inhale, and hold it, and hold it, and let it go. Pain is a trick your mind plays._ Slowly, the pulsating sting ebbs into a dull throb, and Rapunzel, trembling, opens her eyes.

Relief soaks through her when she sees Eugene slumbering on, undisturbed by her tears. Heart in her mouth, she gets to her feet and creeps past him.

They spent the night in a small gap where the trees part around a shallow brook; the water glints with the first honeyed touches of the sunlight, and the fine silt lining its banks squelches between her toes as she crouches before the stream to wash all the blood away.

The cold water soothes. She keeps her wrist submerged until it’s numb with chill, then tears a strip from the hem of her petticoat to bandage it up.

It’s quiet, after. Songbirds twitter good mornings in their treetops, which rustle with the faint stirring of a breeze. The sky blossoms into pink and violet, burnished orange; dawn crowns the trees in gold.

She sits by the stream awhile, rubbing her bandaged wrist; a stain of unease in the glory of the waking mountain.

Even Gothel’s dire warnings of the world outside her tower hadn’t prepared her for this, and as Rapunzel struggles to fit the pieces together a nameless dread wells up to drown her.

_This isn’t normal, is it? This can’t be normal._

_…Can it?_

## ❦

Eugene’s gaze lingers on her bandage while they eat breakfast, but he doesn’t comment, and the pitiful excuse Rapunzel composed about scratching open a scab in her sleep disintegrates on her tongue. Maybe it’s for the best. She hates the idea of lying to him.

_How do people heal without magic, Eugene?_

She sits on the grass with her arms around her knees, choking on the question while Eugene gets Max saddled. As a child, she injured herself plenty; stubbed toes and bumped knees, fingers burnt and sliced by mistake in the kitchen, pulled muscles from lifting Mother into the tower, once a fractured ankle when she slipped and fell from the rafters.

But all she needed to do was sing…

“How’d you sleep, sunshine?”

“Fine.” It rings hollow, and when Eugene glances at her askance, Rapunzel curls her toes into the grass, hunched; embarrassed. “I… didn’t have the best dreams,” she admits.

“…Yeah. To be honest I didn’t either.”

He finishes with Max and circles the dead pit of their fire, crouching to pick up his satchel and sling it over his shoulder on his way to help Rapunzel to her feet.

_How do people heal without magic?_

It balances on her tongue. She clambers onto Max’s back gagged by it. As long as she doesn’t _say it_ she can cling to the frail hope that what happened this morning is part of the normal healing process; something disgusting but mundane she just needs to get used to.

Fear that it _isn’t_ eats her alive.

“How ’bout a story?” Eugene asks as he swings into the saddle behind her.

She blinks. “…What… kind of story?”

“One about Flynn Rider, of course!” He clicks his tongue, and Max plods forward with a low snort. Sheepishly, he adds, “The… fictional one, that is. I know a lot of them by heart, and… it might take your mind off things. The dreams. Or at least pass the time.”

“I’d love to hear one, Eugene.”

“O- okay!” His voice soars into a delight so pure it eases her fear; she can _hear_ the grin coloring his voice as he says, “How about… Let’s see; _Flynnigan Rider and the Crown of Traodol?_ One of my favorites. It begins in an ancient crypt, deep in the steaming jungles of Traodol, where our intrepid hero Flynnigan Rider has taken shelter from a raging monsoon…”

She listens, enthralled, while Eugene narrates Flynn Rider’s discovery of a mysterious diadem in the half-flooded depths of the crypt and his perilous escape from the gang of river-pirates who have made it their base of operations. The rest of the story follows Flynn as he learns that the pirates stole the diadem from the beautiful Princess of Traodol, and swears to recover the rest of the stolen treasure and rid the jungle of their piracy forever.

As the mountains smooth into rolling meadows and then into cultivated fields scattered with farmhouses and the hazy shine of the sea grows brighter on the horizon, Eugene carries the story to its grand conclusion, when Flynn Rider duels the evil pirate captain into defeat on his own barge, rescues the Princess, and at last rides into the sunrise in pursuit of his next adventure; “For no promise of comfort, nor wealth, nor peace could compete with the pull of the open road or the siren-song of the unknown in the restless heart of Flynnigan Rider.”

Breathless silence follows the tale.

“…You know,” Eugene says quietly, a moment later, “I never realized before how… bittersweet these endings are. Flynn’s always searching for the next thing. He’s never just… content.”

“Well,” Rapunzel says, nudging him, “maybe Eugene Fitzherbert gets to be happy instead.”

He bumps her in turn. “Maybe he does.”

“And thank you for sharing with me. I loved it.”

“You did?”

“I liked the panthers.”

“Yes! That’s always been one of my favorite parts, and…”

He chatters on for a few minutes, and Rapunzel settles against his chest and lets him, smiling; it isn’t until he reaches a natural lull in his enthusiasm and Rapunzel sits up to stretch the stiffness out of her shoulders that she realizes with a start how _close_ they are now. She can see the white towers of Herzingen’s palace rising in the distance.

“I can’t believe it was _right there_ ,” she says. “All this time…”

“Yeah, it’s… Pretty astounding, how well-hidden that tower was.”

They don’t stop for lunch, not with the palace looming so close. By the time they reach the bridge Rapunzel’s stomach is bubbling with hunger and nerves. Eugene dismounts, helps her down, and picks up Max’s reins with a white-knuckled grip that betrays his own anxiety as they approach the gatehouse together.

The guard there is knobbly and thin, like he never quite grew into his elbows or knees; freckles spatter his round face, and when he sees them coming, his round grey eyes bulge and he gapes for so long that his belated, “Halt, there!” falls flat.

“…Hi,” Eugene says. He takes half a step back to save his nose from a feeble jab of the guard’s halberd. “Uh… look, I’ve never actually done this before, so bear with me. I surrender.”

“Y- you do?”

“Yep. I’ve come to return what I stole. The… horse, the tiara, with apologies to the… king and queen.” Eugene pales. The guard gapes even harder. “And, y’know, don’t quote me on this, but I think this is the part where you escort us to the palace?”

The halberd’s haft creaks as the guard wrings his hands around it. “Is this a trick? Because you’re not gonna fool me, Mister.”

“You could escort me to the palace in… shackles? If that makes you feel better.” This gets the halberd prodded into his face again, and he sighs. “Look… Mister… Guard, person. What’s you’re name?”

“Corporal Pete!”

“Corporal Pete.” Eugene lets Max’s reins slide through his grip, and they dangle for a moment of tense suspicion before Pete lifts his halberd and shuffles closer to snatch them. “No tricks. See, I… I found… I mean, I’m trying to—”

He looks at Rapunzel with a pitiful _help-me_ expression, and she takes a deep breath, squeezing his hand as she steps forward. Pete’s attention snaps onto her, his face closed with a wariness that opens to sudden, dawning surprise.

She swallows, hard.

“Hi,” she says, with a little wave. “I’m Rapunzel. A- and…” _Breathe. Just say it. Just— Why is this so hard? Just spit it out!_ “I’m the Lost Princess. M- my m— _Gothel._ Is the name of the woman who- who kidnapped me.” Saying the word makes her skin _crawl._ “She raised me in a tower about, um…”

“Forty miles,” Eugene supplies.

“—forty miles south of here. Eugene found me, and… and- and now we’re here. We don’t have any proof, but— I- I promise I’m telling the truth. I _promise._ ” Her heart like a bird beating its wings against its cage; she’s mumbling, she’s not making sense, she’s going to get Eugene _killed_ — “ _Please,_ help us. Eugene is— he saved me. Please.”

Pete makes a choked noise. His dangling jaw shuts with an audible _click._ “You’re— _Princess Helene?_ ” He gawks at her. “ _You’re_ Princess— Well that’s— that— _hold on_ just one minute.”

He drops Max’s reins and his halberd and bolts into the gatehouse. The steel head _clangs_ against the cobbled bridge. Max paws at the ground lowers his nose to lip curiously at the tiny green weeds sprouting up along the curb. And then it’s just… quiet.

Rapunzel shivers; Eugene wraps his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against him, and with her head on his chest she can feel how _fast_ his heart beats. A trapped bird just like hers. Still, he whispers, “It’s gonna be okay, Rapunzel.”

Finally, _finally,_ Pete returns with another guard. This one’s taller, much burlier, weatherbeaten and tan; his bushy brown mustache appears to be trying to eat his mouth. “ _So,_ ” he says, studying them both. “Flynn Rider and the ‘Lost Princess,’ eh?”

“It’s Eugene.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve— what?”

“My name. My real name; it’s Eugene Fitzherbert. I’m… done stealing, and done pretending to be somebody I’m not.”

“See, Stan, I told you he was acting _weird,_ ” Pete whispers.

Stan rubs his mustache. He looks like the effort of breaking from his mental script is giving him a headache. “All… right. _Alright._ This is obviously a matter for the Commander. Pete, you get Max to the stables to get him checked over. No telling _what_ this troublemaker might’ve done to him.”

“I rode him. He’s a _horse._ ”

“Shut up, Rider—”

“—It’s Eugene—”

“—then Pete, go get Sir Peter. You know the drill.”

Under Stan’s watchful eye, they watch Pete jog across the bridge with Max trotting along at his side. Then Stan clears his throat, raps the butt of his halberd against the cobbles, and says, “Alright then. Come on, you two. And no funny business.”

Herzingen is quieter than Rapunzel remembers. Less colorful. Banal, even. The festive banners are gone and the chalk drawings all washed away; the people hurry along, looking harried, without stopping to sing or dance. She supposes this is just… what the city’s like when there isn’t a holiday, but still, she can’t shake her discomfort. It feels like a bad omen; like this time, they’re not welcome.

Stan brings them to a squat, blocky grey building not far from the bridge. Candles illuminate the interior, bolstered by a feeble trickle of sunlight through high, narrow windows, and there isn’t much in the way of furniture. Some austere benches lining the walls, a threadbare rug, a desk manned by a portly guard who goggles at Eugene when they come in and exclaims, “ _Stars_ , Sarge, is that—”

“Ayup. Need the keys to the interview rooms, please.”

“Yessir.”

The guard reaches under his desk and pulls up a ring of keys, which he passes over to Stan with his eyes still glued to Eugene. Stan jangles the keys and, pointing with his halberd, directs them down a narrow, grey, utterly bare hallway.

“What _is_ this place?” Rapunzel asks. It looks so _sad._

“This is the Osiander Street Constabulary, miss,” Stan tells her. “It’s nothing to worry about, just standard procedure; you’re not the first girl to show up claiming to be the Lost Princess, see. We’ve had… six? Since I started with the guards twelve years ago. Most of ’em are just liars, but there was one nice young woman who really _believed_ it. She was just troubled, poor thing. Queen had her sent to a doctor in… Don’t remember. From what I hear she’s doing better now, but— never mind! _Point_ being, we can’t just take your claim at face value, miss, so…”

He unlocks one of the identical grey doors spaced along the grey walls and pushes it open to reveal the small grey room on the other side. “These are the interview rooms,” he says. “What we’re going to do is put Ri—Mr. Fitzherbert in this one, and you, miss, in the next one over, so you can just sit tight while we review your case and wait for Commander Morgenstern to get here. He’s in charge of handling these things.”

Eugene’s hand twitches in hers. They exchange a glance.

“We don’t… really have any proof,” Rapunzel admits.

“But we do have this,” Eugene says. His hand slips from her grasp; he pulls the tiara from the satchel, and holds it out. “I know it doesn’t prove anything, but… whatever happens, I did come here to return it.”

Stan’s eyes widen. He takes the tiara with reverence, and the diamonds catch the dim candlelight and blazes with their own fire, spackling the drab walls with colorful sparks. “ _Well,_ ” he breathes, as the gemstones glitter, “if nothing else, Mr. Fitzherbert, thank you for this. You don’t know how much it will mean to the royal family to have this back. Especially if…” His gaze falls on Rapunzel again. The curled tips of his mustache wobble, and he clears his throat. “In you go, Mr. Fitzherbert. I’ll lock both of you in, but that’s just a precaution—no need to worry.”

“That’s fine.” Eugene eases away with a lopsided smile. “See you on the other side, Sunshine.”

Rapunzel rises onto her toes, kisses his cheek, and whispers, “Good luck, Eugene.”

“You too, Rapunzel.”

Her heart sinks as Stan pulls the door to the interview room shut again, blocking Eugene from her sight. She hears the low _thunk_ of the bolt sliding home, and all she can do is wring her hands together while Stan unlocks the next door.

For her.

She steps inside. It’s small, like the other one. Square and _grey, grey, why is everything grey._ A table with a bench on one side and a chair on the other sits in the middle of the room, and it’s otherwise bare.

“Would you like some water, miss?” Stan asks.

“…What?”

“Or tea? Something to eat? I can nip down to the canteen and make you up a sandwich, if you like.”

“O- oh! I, um. I _would_ like some water, actually, if that’s… alright?”

“Of course, miss. I’ll be right back.”

He nods. He shuts the door. The bolt slams a second later, and Rapunzel flinches. _Cold iron clamping her wrists—the lock clicks—rattling chains—_

_Breathe._

She sits down, curling her fingers around her bandaged wrist and squeezing until it throbs. Pascal clambers down from his resting place under her hair, crawls down her arm and crouches on the tabletop inside the wedge of her arms. His eyes swivel in dizzy corkscrews as he searches their strange new world for flies or crawling things.

Rapunzel envies his calm.

“Well, Pascal,” she whispers. Her voice feels deafening in the close emptiness. “No turning back now, is there?”

And nothing to do but wait. After a while, Stan returns with a mug of clear, lukewarm water and a small plate piled with bread, sliced cheese, and grapes, which he sets down in front of her with a warm smile that lifts her spirits a bit before he retreats and she’s alone again. Rapunzel nibbles at the food, sips the water, and breathes.

## ❦

Nicer than the dungeons. He’ll give it that. Not as dank. Not _underground._

Eugene paces the interrogation room—“ _interview,” come_ on, _let’s call a spade a spade_ —and waits. No bloodstains on the flagstones, that’s a good thing; could just mean Corona’s watchmen know how to give a man a beating without getting blood everywhere, but it’s something of a comfort all the same.

He can’t stop thinking about the bandage around Rapunzel’s wrist.

Funny. A few days ago he wouldn’t’ve cared about anything but saving his own neck, but now all he can think is: _Rapunzel doesn’t have any scars. Maybe the scrapes from the shackles were just bugging her._

Another circuit. Another. The interrogation room spans six paces end to end. Eugene rubs his palm with the pad of his thumb, feeling the smooth, soft skin where the cut from the rocks should be scabbed over. Of course Rapunzel doesn’t have _scars._ Until a few days ago she had seventy feet of hair and a magical song she could—

_Oh, Sunshine._

It’s like the ghosts of his childhood seeping out of the blank stone walls to haunt him. Some days it seemed like every kid in Vardaros either ripped themselves apart or else went callused and careless to escape it. He’d learned not to care. But Rapunzel…

He’d happily take another dagger twisting in his guts to spare Rapunzel any more pain. In just a few days she changed his whole life; and she deserves the _world._ If a miracle happens and he gets out of this alive he’s going to make damn well sure she gets it.

The door creaks open.

Eugene wheels around to face the man stepping inside, cursing himself for not paying attention—being a changed man is no excuse for getting _sloppy_ —and his stomach drops. If looks could kill he’d be dead on the spot.

”Commander— Morgenstern, wasn’t it? H- hey there, been a while, hasn’t it? Long time no… see—”

“Sit _down,_ Rider,” the Commander growls.

“It’s Eugene,” Eugene says primly. But he sits. Commander Morgenstern is a big man, the kind who looks _made_ for law enforcement: barrel-chested, tall, jaw strong enough to cut glass. His eyes are like dark chips of ice.

Eugene gulps as Morgenstern slams the door and strides to the table, slapping his palms down so he can loom. _Yeah, you’re a big man, aren’t you? Bet you get a real kick outta this, huh, tough guy?_ “Let me make one thing clear, _Rider,_ ” Morgenstern snaps. “You are _this—close_ ”—he holds his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart—“to the gallows.”

“Yeah, no, I get that, really—”

“So I want to know just one thing. Why did you come back?”

“…P- pardon?”

Straightening up, Morgenstern says bluntly, “You escape your execution. Steal my horse. Get away free and clear. Three days later, you march back into my city, surrender quietly, and return what you stole. No bargaining. No request for clemency. What happened?”

Eugene opens his mouth, comes up blank, and shuts it again. This line of questioning doesn’t fit the harsh, icy hate in the Commander’s glare. “I found the Lost Princess,” he says. “I… wanted to help her get home.”

“Why.”

“Because I—” _love her._ It sticks in his throat like a shard of glass. Eugene closes his eyes. “…I found her,” he says again, slower, “the same day I stole the tiara, after I dropped over that ledge. There was a crack in the cliff, hidden under all the ivy, and I followed it into this… ravine, with a tower in it. I climbed the tower to wait out your guards, Rapunzel was there. She hit me with a frying pan.”

 _And I knew right then she was something special._ Grinning stupidly at the memory, Eugene pushes up his bangs, showing off the bruised knot at his hairline. “Still tender,” he says, wry. “Anyway. Long story short, she asked me to take her to see the floating lights—that lantern thing you guys do. She’d been seeing them through her window on her birthday every year, never knew what they were, Mom wouldn’t take her, yada yada. We sneak out, head for Herzingen, and it… started to become clear that _Mom_ was a- a real piece of work, you know? Never let her leave the tower. See, she—

“Alright, this part is gonna sound ki-inda strange, but when I met Rapunzel, she had seventy feet of blonde hair and, turns out, when she sings it… glowed, and it could heal.” He rubs his unbroken palm again, sighing. “But if she _cut_ her hair, it turned brown and lost the healing magic. She told me when she was a baby somebody tried to cut it, so she had this one lock of brown hair.” An ugly laugh bubbles up his throat. “I’m guessing it was _Gothel_ who cut it, huh? This woman _stole_ Rapunzel so she could keep herself _young_ forever, can you believe that?”

 _He_ can’t fathom it. Sure, Eugene enjoys his own handsome, youthful good looks, but he’s going to age like a cask of fine wine, _thankyouverymuch_. And mistreating somebody as wonderful as _Rapunzel_ just to stay _pretty?_

Morgenstern’s expression has shifted out of hard suspicion into something Eugene… can’t identify. Maybe surprise, locked but leaking out from behind a stoic mask. Hoping that’s a good sign, he continues, “So… I dunno. I guess, the thing with Rapunzel is, she grew up with this… _woman_ who taught her to be terrified of everything, but she’s still so full of joy, and hope, and- and just, _love,_ for the whole world, and when you spend time with somebody like that… well, I guess it just starts to rub off on you.

“S- so-o, we got to Herzingen, we see the lanterns up close, I start to realize I… don’t care about the tiara anymore. I wanted to return it—” he’ll just gloss over to _whom_ “—but… heh. You know how that went.”

“Your partners turned on you,” Morgenstern says dryly.

“Not only that; they knew about Rapunzel’s hair and they wanted it for themselves. Only way they could’ve known that was if _Gothel_ told them, and once I figured _that_ out, I knew how much danger she was really in with that woman. So after I escaped, I went straight to the tower. And…”

Eugene leans back, pointing to the dull stain blooming across the front of his jerkin. Morgenstern raises his eyebrows. “Gothel had Rapunzel chained up. Stabbed me as I climbed in through the window. Would’ve left me for dead, but Rapunzel told her that if Gothel let her heal me first, she’d go willingly wherever Gothel wanted. And I always have a knife in my boot.”

“You cut her hair after she healed you.”

 _Before, actually._ But he’s not keen to get into his own death with Morgenstern. This story’s unbelievable enough _already._ “Yeah,” Eugene says. “I wanted her to be free.”

Morgenstern rubs his face with one hand and then stares flatly at a spot on the wall somewhere over Eugene’s head. “And this… Gothel woman? What happened to her?”

“She fell,” Eugene says quietly. His vision had been swimming into darkness at the time, everything _cold,_ and he’s half convinced he imagined the sudden stench of _rot_ and Gothel decaying before their eyes. “Out the window. She’s dead.”

“I… see.”

“…Look, sir, I know how this all must sound—”

The Commander lifts a hand, and Eugene stops, pressing himself into the bench. He hasn’t felt this small and scared since he was six and getting into trouble for raiding the pantry at the orphanage. “I… cannot believe I’m saying this, but… I believe you.”

He blinks. “You _do?_ ”

“Mm. Don’t get to my position without getting a sense for when a man is lying, and I can tell that at the very least, _you_ believe all this. And some of the particulars of your story… match certain… secret criteria.” Morgenstern snorts like he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. “I’ve got a few questions for… Rapunzel. Then it’s a matter for the King and Queen.”

“Oh. Will I—”

Morgenstern gives him a _Look,_ and Eugene shuts up.

“Just sit tight, Fitzherbert. Won’t be long now.”

## ❦

Her parents sit together on a white marble bench in a secluded corner of the royal gardens. Small pink flowers froth up the trellis behind them, and the sunlight slants down, syrupy in the humidity. They cling to each other, hands intertwined, and her m— her _mo_ — the Queen gripping the tiara as if it’s the last thing in the world holding her together. The diamonds sparkle in the sunlight, scattering rainbows over the emerald lawn.

Her _parents._

It’s happening so much faster than she expected. After maybe an hour of waiting in the interview room, Sir Peter entered, introduced himself, asked a few strange questions about Gothel and her hair, and then thanked her and left again. A few minutes later, Stan came in to let her and Eugene out, brought them to the palace, and handed them off to Sir Peter, who announced that the King and Queen were _anxious to meet you both._

And now they’re _here._ Sir Peter leads them across the lawn to—

Her parents.

Her— the Queen looks up, and and Rapunzel catches her breath. It’s like gazing into a mirror; eyes the fresh green of springtime sprouts and an upturned nub of a nose and the rounded chin Mother used to tap and—

_(getting kind of chubby)_

—but then again they aren’t the same, because this woman is softened and worn around the edges by the passage of years and has grey wisping in the silky waves of her brunette hair. Her lips part around a quiet sound, an echo of Rapunzel’s own breath. Tears fill her eyes as she rises and drifts across the lawn, reaching slowly out to touch Rapunzel’s shoulder.

“…Rapunzel?” she asks; her voice quavers, quiet and so _unsure_ that for a moment Rapunzel can’t—

(“They called you Helene,” Sir Peter told her, gruffly, on their way here. “But if you prefer Rapunzel, no one is going to have a problem with that.”)

She can’t see for the sudden tears in her eyes. Rapunzel hiccups through the knot of lost years and stolen time in her throat and stumbles forward, wrapping her arms around the Queen as an old, forgotten grief washes over her. The Queen hugs her tight, quaking with her own quiet sobs, stroking the back of Rapunzel’s head as if she still can’t, quite, believe she’s _here._

“Welcome home,” she whispers.

Sniffling, Rapunzel manages to lift her head enough to peer over the Queen’s shoulder, and the King— _her father_ —is there; a step behind. Both hands clasped over his mouth, and his red-rimmed eyes leaking tears.

“D- Dad…?” she tries, and it feels so _strange_ on her tongue, but it makes him shudder out a laugh or a sob or a gasp of relief as he opens his arms, closes the gap with one hurried stride, and embraces them both.

## ❦

It’s all strange. It’s a purging; four of them half-collapsed into the grass. Neither her— _Dad_ nor— the Queen say a word about her dress, which is muddy and grass-stained and a little tattered from the week’s adventures. They don’t remark on her bare feet, either, or the ragged cut of her hair, or the helpless, ugly tears smudging her cheeks.

Still, she hides in the embrace, not looking up until her unexpected cry has washed itself out and she can keep her voice from shaking when she asks, “What about Eugene?”

“He’s pardoned, of course,” the Queen says at once. She wipes her tears, sniffling, and glances at— _Dad_ —as she adds, “Really, Fred.”

Dad _(Dad!)_ starts. “Oh! Oh, yes, of course, I should have said.” He clears his throat, abashed, and gives Eugene a tiny nod. “I signed your pardon the moment Sir Peter confirmed that you really did bring our daughter home, son. You have nothing to worry about.”

The strain in Eugene’s face eases. “ _Thank_ you, sir—ah, Your… Highness?”

“Majesty,” Dad replies, sounding amused. He waves away Eugene’s hasty apology and continues, “Quite alright, young man. Though let me be clear that this clemency applies only to your _past_ crimes.”

“Crystal clear, Your Majesty, don’t worry. I’m done with thieving for good. Rapunzel showed me there’s… a much better way to live.”

“I’m glad to hear that—Eugene?” the Queen’s smile brightens when he nods. “And as Rapunzel’s… friend, you’re welcome to stay in the palace as long as you like.”

“…I am?”

“Of course.” She gets to her feet, smoothing out her wrinkled skirts with an absent flick of her hand, and then offers her hand to Rapunzel with so much hope in her eyes that Rapunzel feels a twinge of guilt even as she lets the Queen help her to her feet. _(Her m—)_ “You’re Rapunzel’s friend, Eugene. And I can only imagine how… _overwhelming_ all this is for you, Rapunzel.” A gentle smile. Rapunzel returns it hesitantly. “We want you to be comfortable.”

“—And speaking of that,” Dad interjects, voice dry, as he stands too. “Would I be right in assuming you would both appreciate a change of clothes?”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Eugene says immediately. “And a _bath._ Just _look_ what running around in the woods for a week has done to my _hair_ —”

The nervous edge in his babbling sharpens as the King puts a hand on his shoulder, but— _Dad!_ —just nods tolerantly and begins to steer him toward the palace; Rapunzel and the Queen trail after them, and the Queen catches her eye with another smile. “He seems like a nice young man.”

_Yes, the wanted thief—I’m so proud._

“Y- yes he’s— he’s… yes.” Pascal’s claws prickle against her neck as the chameleon creeps onto her shoulder, one of his eyes fixated on the Queen, and Rapunzel reaches up to stroke his side. Moth— _Gothel_ never met Pascal. She would _never_ have approved, and the chameleon always seemed so afraid of her; if he wants to introduce himself to the Queen, that can only be a good sign. “And, um, this is Pascal. He’s a chameleon.”

“I see that,” the Queen says, peering down at Pascal with nothing short of delight. “Another friend of yours?”

“Yes! A snake chased him into my tower when I was seven, and I scared it off with a frying pan, and he’s been my best friend ever since.”

This earns her an admiring glance, and Rapunzel looks down, her face aflame. “That was brave of you.” She chuckles. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of chameleons making good pets, but it’s wonderful to have a companion, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Rapunzel admits.

A shadow flickers across the Queen’s face, but she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders and it’s gone, replaced with another smile. “May I ask you something, Rapunzel?”

“…Yes?”

“Do you—” the Queen pauses. She seems to be considering her next words with great care, and Rapunzel’s stomach bubbles with nerves. Has she gotten herself into trouble already? “Do you… _want_ to stay here, Rapunzel?”

Her heart sinks.

_What did I do wrong? Of course, I should have thanked them for taking me back and pardoning Eugene—maybe I should have said I love them, too—I’m so—_

“I— I- _of course,_ I want…”

“Rapunzel.” The Queen touches her shoulder again, just beneath where Pascal is perched; her smile becoming… sadder, and wistful. “It’s alright. Of course I would _love_ for you to stay, and for Herzingen to become your _home._ But much more than that, I want you to be _happy._ I simply want to make sure that you’re here because that’s what _you_ want for yourself.” She studies Rapunzel’s face. “Does that make sense to you?”

“…Oh.” The pure, patient concern in the Queen’s gaze is… new, and Rapunzel isn’t sure how to answer it. “O-oh. Yes? When… Eugene and I were figuring out what to do, after— after. I kept wanting to… to meet you.”

That seems like the right answer; it makes the Queen relax, at least. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says softly. She squeezes Rapunzel’s shoulder and then draws away, her expression turning thoughtful as her gaze wanders to the palace doors just ahead. “Sir Peter?”

“Your Majesty?” the Commander says from behind them. 

The Queen puts out a hand, holding open the door and waving Rapunzel ahead of her into the large, airy hallway of the palace. To Sir Peter, she says, “Rapunzel will need a lady-in-waiting who can help her adjust to palace life,” she says. “The young ladies of the court are perfectly— _nice,_ but…”

Rapunzel doesn’t know what the Queen is trying to get at, or even what a lady-in-waiting, _is,_ but Sir Peter catches on at once. Surprise lights and flashes across his face. “You’re referring to Cassandra, Your Majesty?’

“That girl—”

“ _Fred._ ”

The Queen’s face goes stern, and Rapunzel watches in bafflement while she and the King have what appears to be a brief, silent argument with nothing but hard stares and a single lifted eyebrow.

Whatever it is, the Queen seems to win. _Dad_ tilts his head, and the Queen turns back to Sir Peter as if there had been no interruption. “Cassandra is a remarkably competent young woman. I think she would be an ideal choice.”

Sir Peter furrows his brow, rubbing his thumb against the golden band of the tiara he must have collected from where the Queen left it. He says, “I… will certainly speak with her about it, Your Majesty. This is an… unexpected offer, but I’m sure she will be honored by your recommendation.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

Smiling again, the Queen nods in a very _final_ way, and Sir Peter bows deeply before he turns and strides off. Rapunzel blinks after him, feeling as though something important just happened but at a loss for what it could be.

“What’s a lady-in-waiting?”

“A lady who attends upon a queen,” the Queen replies. “Or princess. She’ll be at your side to assist with the day-to-day duties and responsibilities, and to be a source for companionship and advice.”

“Like a friend?”

“Rather like a friend, yes.” At her gesture, they resume their walk, Dad falling into step beside them with his hand still on Eugene’s shoulder. He seems oblivious to the nervous glances Eugene keeps giving him. “I think you’ll like Cassandra,” the Queen continues. “She’s—”

“Headstrong,” Dad mutters.

“—Sir Peter’s daughter, and a very bright, passionate young woman.”

“I’d love to meet her!” That was the _best_ part of the Lantern Festival; meeting people— _talking_ to them—the indescribable thrill of making _friends._ It’s something she never, ever wants to stop doing.

“Wonderful! I’ll arrange for you two to be introduced later,” the Queen says, with another sharp glance at the King when he starts to say something else; whatever it is, Rapunzel never finds out, because he just sighs and shakes his head.

_Strange._

She decides not to dwell on it. After several turns that have Rapunzel completely disoriented—who knew palaces were _this big?_ —the King steers Eugene off in one direction to “show you to the palace baths, son,” while the Queen leads Rapunzel up a long, curving flight of stairs.

“Where are _we_ going?” Rapunzel asks.

“To the room that… would have been yours, if you hadn’t—” the Queen winces, shaking her head. “I’m afraid it’s still set up as a nursery, but you can select furniture later in the evening and furnish it however you please. For the time being, your maids are drawing you a bath.”

“My—maids?”

“Ethel, Johanna, and Faith,” the Queen says. Her lips twitch when she catches the look on Rapunzel’s face. “Their job is to help you feel comfortable. If that means you need them to stand outside and let you bathe and dress yourself, that’s what you tell them to do, alright?”

 _Overwhelming is right,_ Rapunzel thinks, a little dazed. But she nods, and as the Queen leads her higher and higher into what she realizes halfway up must be one of the towers, she resolves to just accept whatever comes. _I’m a princess now; I should learn how to act like one._

The last thing she wants to do is disappoint anyone.

“I hurt my wrist,” she blurts out, with an awkward gesture at her makeshift bandage. “It’s… fine, I think, I wrapped it up, but, well, the thing is, because of my hair—do you know about my hair?—I mean, you must, well, my hair, I don’t really know—”

“How injuries heal without magic?” the Queen says gently. Rapunzel nods. “Of course. I’ll send up one of the royal medics, to see to the wound and answer any questions you have; they’re all far better educated on the subject than I.”

“Thank you.”

Her room turns out to be at the very top of the palace’s tallest tower, a coincidence that might have turned her stomach if the room weren’t so _vast._ After a quick introduction to her maids—tiny Faith, with her sweet, round face; tall, severe Johanna; and Ethel, a plump, chatty old woman who melts into helpless adoration for a moment when she meets Pascal—she relaxes enough to enjoy a warm soak in the bath adjacent to her room.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of floral soaps and trying on silken dresses while Faith and Johanna hem and bring in and let out with a deftness even Rapunzel couldn’t match and Ethel trims the rough ends of her hair into a smooth curve that hugs the base of her neck and makes the almost unbearable _lightness_ of her head seem… balanced, at least; and once the initial embarrassment of being dressed and undressed like a doll has passed, she finds that it isn’t… too awful, having company like this.

By dinnertime, she’s washed and trimmed and bandaged and dressed in the most _gorgeous_ lilac gown she’s ever seen in her life; a wonder of satin and silk and layers of cloth that makes her feel like a real _princess._ She grins as Faith leads her down to the dining hall.

Eugene is waiting for her in the antechamber, and the moment he sees her, his eyes go wide and soft in a way that makes her feel like melting.

“ _Wow,_ Sunshine.”

“Wow _yourself,_ ” Rapunzel says, gawking in turn. His hair shines with a sleek, perfect luster in the rosy lamplight, and he’s changed out of his careworn travel clothes and into fine black breeches and a doublet of lavender brocade trimmed with violet, the pale-gold satin of his shirt peeking above the collar. If she feels like a princess, Eugene looks like her _prince._

And he’s _beautiful._

She says as much, and Eugene laughs happily and says, “I’d say we make _quite_ the attractive pair, Sunshine.” He offers her his arm with a roguish wink. “Shall we?”

“I, for one, am starving,” Rapunzel replies, matching his lofty tone as she slips her arm through his. “You ready?”

“Ready.”

Nerves flutter in her stomach again, but it’s good this time. She takes a deep breath and, with Pascal perched on her shoulder and Eugene on her arm, steps through the doors to have dinner with her parents.

Her _parents!_

## ❦

“A letter from Corona, Your Grace.”

“…Oh?” A coy smile plays over her lips; she takes the letter in a slender hand. “Thank you, Isacco,” she murmurs. “Go.”

He clicks his heels together and goes, movements slick as oil. Once he is gone Rosalia Morcant settles back against her lounge and breaks the seal on the letter with a lazy flick of her fingers. She reads; she laughs, quiet amusement feathering in the dry air of her library.

She closes the weighty philosophical monograph with which she has spent her evening and rises, letter in hand; moving with a whisper of her velvet skirts across opulent rugs and polished floorboards to her writing desk. Fading sunlight filters through the colored panes of the window above the desk, scattering into shards of azure and lilac and rose over the floor.

Rosalia slides open a drawer at the front of the writing desk, and gently opens the ornate silver box inside. There, cradled satin, lies a bottle: small, elegant, green like the fall of sunlight through summer leaves. An elaborate etching of a bird in flight curls around the front, and tiny silver flakes glitter within the crystalline stopper.

Smiling, she sets the bottle aside and and sits. For a while the only sounds are the voiceless mutterings of her library and the gentle scratch of quill against parchment; when she is finished, she rolls her letters into the bottle and stoppers it again. The glass warms beneath her fingertips; whorls of iridescent light shimmer along its curves.

She raises it to her lips, and whispers a name.

With a faint _pop,_ the bottle vanishes, leaving motes of emerald light winking and dying in the still, quiet air.


	5. Chapter 4: Apogee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Injury.

###  **Chapter Four: Apogee**

“Okay, Ruddiger.” Varian snags a sigh between his teeth as he squeezes a few excess droplets of muriatic acid back into its vial. “Nnnno reaction. Again.” He taps the pipette against the glass rim to shake away any lingering traces, and stoppers the vial with a disgruntled snort. “But that’s, _huh,_ that’s fine…”

Snorting again—it doesn’t _feel_ fine—he sets the muriatic acid aside squints at the array of other chemicals laid out on the overturned apple crates he’s been using as a field lab. “Important thing is, now we know this thing doesn’t contain carbonates,” he mutters. “That’s, you know. Progress.”

Ruddiger twines around his ankles, babbling, and when he tries to leap on to the crates, Varian intercepts him with a well-practiced scoop. “Thanks, bud, but you know you’re not allowed up there.” The raccoon squirms in his grip and trundles away with an offended chitter, his tail fluffed, the second Varian releases him. “It’s for your own good, buddy—”

More chittering. Varian adjusts his goggles with a roll of his eyes, rubbing his chin as he returns his attention to his chemicals.

It is _maddening._ Explosions, he can handle; fizzled reactions he can deal with; but _this?_ Trying and trying and getting… just, _nothing?_

A week in and the only progress he’s made with the Nathair rock is marking it all up with a bit of chalk, tracking inert test after inert test. Nothing scratches the glossy surface—nothing dissolves it—nothing reacts with it at all. _Malic acid, vitriol, slaked lime, now muriatic—_

Yesterday he broke out the new compounds he’s been formulating for the water boilers, to see if the rock would react to extreme heat, and _nothing happened_ —besides some singed undergrowth and his fervent gratitude for the rain that had soaked the forest that morning.

_So._

Groaning, Varian cracks his knuckles and hunches over to scrawl down the non-results of his latest test. He’s gleaning plenty about what the rock _isn’t,_ but nothing of what it _is;_ it’s like trying to figure out the shape of something by studying the empty spaces where it isn’t, and he’s on track to run out of things to try before he extracts any secrets out of this _stupid_ rock.

Being smart with the natural resources of the Anbruch area and frugal with his meager earnings from the apothecary has gotten him pretty far in his chosen field, but—he isn’t _made_ of money or supplies.

He huffs.

_I’m not giving up yet._

“What d’you think, Ruddiger?” he sighs, sorting through the disorganized collection of chemicals he hasn’t tested yet. _No no no, no, no— Hmmm._

_Why not?_

He scoops up the tiny bottle of lunar caustic. Sunlight refracts through the tinted glass as he tilts it to the sky, making the translucent grey powder inside glitter like fresh snow.

“Kind of a long shot, huh, buddy?” He grins at Ruddiger, shaking the powder; the raccoon doesn’t look up from the wooden puzzle feeder Varian rigged up to keep him busy and out of the volatile chemicals. “But, heh, none of our closer shots has worked out so, hn, gotta be worth a try, right?”

The stuff cost him a whole _crown_ when he bought it in Anbruch a few months ago, but it’ll last him a good year with sparing use and just one pinch, in the name of scientific discovery, won’t hurt him if nothing happens. Again.

Humming, he palms the bottle and marches up to the rock, fishing his chalk out of his apron pocket. A dismal pattern of faint circles and notations map out his past experiments, but he sets his jaw and kicks away the disappointment twining around his guts. He’ll figure it out if it kills him.

The tip of his tongue pokes between his teeth as he squats down to scrawl another circle. He unscrews the bottle, dusts a tiny amount of the caustic on to the smooth surface, and waits.

His pulse throbs. He carefully screws the bottle-cap back on, frowning at the test site through the scuffed lenses of his goggles; his stomach clenches with a nervous, dreadful excitement.

Maybe it’s the long string of let-downs making him incautious. Maybe it’s just bad luck that Ruddiger chooses _that moment_ to drop the feeder and slink toward the workbench again; Varian follows the flash of striped fur in the corner of his eye—shouting, “Ruddiger, _don’t touch that!_ ”—and misses the warning _sizzle_ —

_BANG._

Something hot splatters his jaw. Varian yelps as the tell-tale caustic _itch_ sinks into his skin. Instinct propels him onto his feet and he makes a mad, staggering dash for the river—but the pain crescendos, eating into his face like _nothing_ he’s ever—burrowing into his cheek, chewing down his neck—

He trips. Falls, screaming.

Hands close roughly around his shoulders, a grip strong enough to hold him as he writhes. Varian has a confused impression of jolting motion, a rush of air, and then—

_Cold._

The sound of the splash trickles into his mind a few seconds after the river swallows him. A hand presses over his face, gently holding his nose and mouth closed; another settles under his back to support him against the swift current. Cool water streams past, stripping out the pain with smooth efficiency as it flushes the caustic product away from his skin.

Fighting the animal instinct to struggle, Varian forces himself to _relax._ His rescuer knows what they’re doing, so the best thing _he_ can do now is make it easier for them to help—lie still, breathe out slowly—and prolong his submersion as long as possible.

Just as his chest begins to burn with the need to inhale again, his rescuer lifts him out of the river. His head breaks into the warm summer air, and he sucks in a deep, grateful gasp. “Th- th- thank y—”

“Does it still hurt?” A woman’s voice; crisp.

“N- n…” Of course it _hurts;_ but it’s a dull, settled ache now, no longer burning—that’s what’s—moaning, Varian cracks open his watering eyes, trying to get a good look at his rescuer.

_Tall._

_…Sword?_

She’s framed against the late afternoon sun, her face shadowed, her white hair phosphorescent; the bulky cut of her clothes suggests padding, armor maybe, and the hilt of a black sword peeks over one of her broad shoulders.

_Huh._

“Who are _you?_ ”

“A friend,” the woman replies, hoisting him fully out of the water. She wades out of the Nathair and dumps him onto the bank; Varian staggers but keeps his balance and stands there, sopping. “My name is Adira.”

“I- uh. I’m uh, _hn,_ I’m—Varian.”

“I know.”

Adira beams. He pushes his goggles up his forehead, bemused. With the way she’s crouching, they’re almost of a height; the sunlight falls on her face now, and everything about her’s _sharp_ —from the slant of her eyes to the long, narrow point of her chin. Half her face is painted red, the line of paint stark and razor-straight down the middle of her nose; her white braid coils around the side of her head in a thick, spiraling bun.

He’d _definitely_ remember meeting somebody like her before.

“Uh- _hm._ ” When he goes to rub his face, Adira catches his wrist and shoots him a chiding glance that could put all of Dad’s scolding expressions to _shame,_ and a dull heat creeps into his cheeks. “How di— I, I mean, not that I’m not _grateful,_ I- hn- I am—thanks for saving me, but, ah…”

“Quirin and I are old friends,” she says, dropping his arm as she straightens up to her full— _considerable_ —height. “You were a toddler the last time I saw you. I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

With a wink, she folds her hands behind her back and strolls back toward the clearing at—well, it’s a sedate pace for _her._ Varian scrambles to keep up, mopping his wet bangs out of his face. “O- ohh. Um, he’s never, uh…”

“Mentioned me?” Adira sighs. “Let’s just say we didn’t… part on the best terms, and Quirin has never been one to talk about the past.”

 _That_ sounds like Dad, alright. Varian manages a weak chuckle, but before he can work out a more intelligent response, Ruddiger bolts out of the trees and flies up his leg. The raccoon clings to his shoulder, chattering angrily; Varian rubs him behind the ears and mutters, “Hey, hey, buddy, it’s nothing to worry about. Just, you know, another bump on the road to discovery. Heh. I’m fine, I promise… Sp- speaking of, though, A- Adira. Have you uh, have you been _watching_ me?”

Sure, it’s possible she just happened to come by—

“Yup.”

Not a single drop of shame. Varian blinks. _I can respect that. But—_ “Why…?”

“Frankly, it was only a matter of time before you got yourself into some trouble you couldn’t get out of on your own.” Adira grins over her shoulder as she resumes her stroll toward the rock. “Quirin and I may have our disagreements, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep an eye on you.”

Bristling, he opens his mouth to defend his pride—he’s not a _child,_ he doesn’t need a _minder_ —but the quick movement makes the pain in his jaw sharpen, and Varian stops himself with a wince. It feels like a nasty burn, but it would’ve been a lot worse if Adira hadn’t rushed him into the water.

“Also,” she adds brightly, “I had nothing better to do.”

“Oh, great, _thanks._ ”

“Mm-hm.”

She halts and stares at the rock like she’s trying to take it apart with the sheer force of her gaze. Varian watches her for a moment, puzzled, then shrugs to himself and edges past her to examine the reaction site.

_(He got a reaction!)_

The powder’s gone. Burnt away. Where it used to be, thin black needles jag out of the stone. Though they look delicate, a little experimental prodding confirms that the new growths are just as unbreakable as the main trunk.

“ _Fascinating._ ”

“Dangerous,” Adira says quietly, smoothing her fingertips over the glossy stone. Her brow puckers with—could be thoughtfulness or frustration or worry, for all Varian can tell. “What was it you used?”

“Lunar, ah… uhm.” Out of habit, he pats his apron pocket as it occurs to him that the bottle’s gone missing— _must’ve dropped it when_ —alarmed, he shuffles in a circle until his wild search catches a glint half-hidden in the carpeted leaves. Varian swipes it up with a triumphant, “ _Ha!_ ” and holds it up for Adira to see. “Lunar caustic—it’s, uh, a silver salt! Not what I’d normally, ya know, it’s good for cauterizing bleeds, and for warts, so I stock it for the apothecary more than—but, _hn,_ since I’m getting kinda to the throw stuff and see what sticks stage of scien—”

“Silver.”

“Silver _nitrate,_ if you wanna get technical about—”

Adira gives him the _look_ he gets in the apothecary sometimes, whenever he gets going about an interesting compound: the _sun in the sky, boy, please just give me the medicine!_ look. Varian coughs and launches himself at his next thought. “I mean, what— why do you… ask?”

Her face clouds over with—something. _Regret? But why—_

“You should return to your father,” she says. “There are… some things you need to know, and I think you’d best hear it from him.”

Frowning, Varian says, “But Dad doesn’t…”

Talk. Dad _never_ shares anything with him besides farm business or village gossip. Showing up soaking wet with a burn on his face and some forgotten—estranged?—family friend won’t change that.

But Adira shakes her head. “It’s not… my place to— Quirin and I…” She sighs. “He should be the one who tells you.”

“Tells me _what?_ What’s going on? What—” He follows her gaze from him to the rock, and his fists clench. “You _know_ something about this, don’t you?”

She nods.

“And Dad, too?”

Another nod.

Varian lets out his breath in a great _whoosh,_ shutting his eyes. He wants to argue—demand an explanation from this- this mysterious woman who knows his father and seems so keen on dangling information in front of his nose and yanking it away when he reaches for it—but the implacable set of her expression tells him she’s not going to budge. It’s the same one Dad uses when a conversation is _over._

“If my Dad won’t tell me,” he says, raking his hand through his bangs, “Will you?”

Adira tips her head to one side as she considers this, and Varian chews his lip, shifting from foot to foot while he waits for her to decide.

At last she sighs. “I’ll tell you what I can without breaking Quirin’s trust.”

_Good enough._

He grins, not caring that it stings. “I can work with that.”

## ❦

Adira walks him to the outskirts of Herrfeld before she melts away into the gathering dusk with a bland promise to find him “later.” Sighing, Varian trudges the rest of the way home, where the rich smell of a stew flavors the whole house and makes his stomach growl.

“Right,” he mutters, as he eases open the front door. “Showtime, Ruddiger.”

He darts into the cellar first, to shuck off his stained apron, goggles, and safety gloves—a half-hearted effort to keep up the charade that he hasn’t been messing around with alchemy again, as Dad would put it.

Of course, there’s no hiding the burn. Varian checks it in the polished copper mirror hanging over his workbench and groans. It’s dark and angry, a spatter of puckered, discolored flesh crawling over his jaw and splashing down his neck. It looks even worse than it feels.

_Damn. Damn damn damn._

_Just play it cool, Varian._

He sidles into the kitchen with his heart in his mouth and chirps, “Hey, Dad! Dinner smells good!”

His masterful performance lasts exactly four seconds, which is the amount of time it takes for Dad to look up from the pot he’s stirring and notice the burn. His expression tightens, and Varian’s heart sinks.

“Varian, what _happened?_ ”

“It’s not a big deal, Dad, don’t—”

Quirin drops the ladle and crosses their tiny kitchen in one stride, gingerly catching Varian’s chin between callused fingers and tilting his head up. “Varian…”

“It’s _really_ not, Dad! I took care of it! I have—”

“You told me you were going to help Angela with her laundry today.” Disappointment creases Dad’s face, and Varian wilts.

“…Dad, I- I…”

“Son…” Sighing, Dad nudges him toward the kitchen table. The settings for dinner are already laid out; head low, Varian slinks into his seat, shame—and anger—bubbling like another caustic in his stomach.

_If you would just trust me, I wouldn’t have to lie!_

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose, his lips moving around the words _one, two, three, four_ —though no sound escapes, and Varian hunches even further. “Tell me how this happened. Please.”

Biting his lip, Varian weighs how much to say—about the explosion, about _Adira,_ the black rock—but he spends too long deliberating, and Dad’s face tightens again. He stalks back to the hearth, snatching up his ladle again, and begins to stir with sharp agitation.

“Son. The reason I allowed you to set up your lab in the cellar was to _prevent_ these accidents from happening when I’m not around to—you were lucky this time, that you were able to take care of it by yourself.”

 _And that’s a point against mentioning Adira saved me._ Varian grimaces.

“What if this experiment had created poisonous gas? What if it had started another _fire?_ Varian, how do you think I would feel if you didn’t come home and I had no idea where to even look for you? You need to start _thinking_ —”

“I’m _sorry,_ Dad!” Varian grinds his fists into the table, wishing bitterly that Dad could just get angry and yell at him like a- like a _normal parent._ “I’m sorry, okay? There’s this weird rock in the forest and I couldn’t break off a piece to take back to the lab, so I’ve been studying it out there instead.” Tears well up in his eyes, and he slaps them away, scowling. “I’m- I’m _sorry._ I really didn’t know it’d—”

“…A rock.”

“Yeah, a big… It just kinda showed up a few weeks ago, and today I—”

“What kind of rock?”

He winces. This is more direct interest Dad has shown in his work in— _ever,_ really, but the sudden urgency in Dad’s voice on top of the whole… _Adira_ thing makes him nervous. Still, he fumbles his notebook out of his pocket and flips back to the sketch from the first day. “Here. I drew it; I’m not sure what it’s made of yet, but it makes this… sound? Like—”

“Varian.” He’s never heard Dad sound so _sharp,_ and he watches anxiously while Dad lifts the pot out of the hearth and begins to ladle stew into a pair of bowls with trembling hands. “You are not to go near this rock again, do you understand me?”

“What?! But Dad—no, no—I- I need to—”

“What you _need_ is to listen to me, son.” Dad’s expression is stone-hard when he turns around. He brings their bowls to the table, drops into the seat opposite Varian’s, and leans over to grasp his wrists. “This is important, Varian. I need you to leave that rock _alone._ ”

“But _Dad_ —”

“ _Varian!_ ” Dad’s grip tightens, enough of a squeeze to make Varian shut his mouth with a _click._ He knows better than to argue with _that_ tone. “I want you to promise. _Promise me_ that you will not perform any more experiments on that rock.”

_No, no, you’re supposed to— listen—_

When Dad’s flinty stare doesn’t waver in the face of Varian’s silent pleading, he slumps, dropping his gaze to the rough grain of the table. “I… promise, Dad,” he mutters.

It sours on his tongue. It’s not a promise he can keep; already his mind is aswirl with new ideas, new _theories_ about what could make the rock to silver like that—

“Good,” Dad says. He squeezes Varian’s wrists one last time before picking up his spoon. “Now let’s put this to rest and have no more discussion about… strange rocks.”

“Dad—” Varian gnaws his lip, riven by indecision while Dad’s shoulders tense, but the question bursts out in the end. “Who is Adira?”

Silence.

_Silence._

Deafened by his own heartbeat, Varian clutches the edge of the table, watching Dad stir stew around his bowl. The smell of potatoes and pork broth thickens with the growing tension.

“Where did you hear that name, son?”

“I… I met her,” Varian whispers. “In- in the forest, today. She uh- she… helped me with—” he jabs a finger jerkily at his burn “—this. She said- she said you were old friends. And… that… you knew things I should know.”

Dad laughs.

It’s bleak, bitter, _empty,_ and Varian shrinks away because the man making that sound isn’t the father he knows; when Dad laughs it’s a deep chuckle, rich and joyful, but now he sounds like somebody who’s never known happiness.

His dad _shouldn’t_ sound like that.

“…Varian…” Dad rubs his eyes. He looks weary; he looks like he did the first few weeks after Mom died, and Varian cringes. “You’re too young.”

“Dad, I’m not a child—”

“Yes, Varian, you _are._ ” Dad reaches across the table again, scooping Varian’s hand into his own. “You are _too young_ to get involved with this. Adira is dangerous, son; these rocks are dangerous. I _need you_ to trust me, and stay away from them both. Promise me.”

“Dad—”

“Son.”

A dense lump fills his throat; frustration twisted up and eating him from the inside out. Going down to the cellar and screaming at the brick foundations of the house would probably do him more good than _this._

_Why can’t you just talk to me, Dad?_

Varian hangs his head, jerking his hand free so he can pick at his stew in miserable silence, resisting the urge to rub his aching jaw. After dinner, he’ll crack open Mom’s old recipe book and make himself a fresh salve before he dresses the burn for bed, but for now—he’ll live with the discomfort.

It’s a reminder to pay closer attention next time.

“I promise, Dad,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s… alright, Varian.”

And that’s… that.

Nothing more to say. Most evenings, they talk about the farm or news around town over dinner, but tonight, the silence stretches and twangs in discomfort until Varian scrapes his bowl clean and gets up to skulk out of the kitchen and set more water from the well.

“I’ll get the dishes tonight, Varian,” Dad says, before he can go. “Just… Go take care of that burn, alright? And get some sleep.”

He still sounds so tired. Varian ducks his head, shuffling in the doorway.

“Sure, Dad. G- goodnight.”

“Sleep well, son.”

Shoulders slumped, Varian slinks away. It’ll only take a few minutes to whip up one of Mom’s poultices—and maybe brew some willow tea for good measure—and then, well. Bed. Figure out how he’ll sneak away tomorrow while he tries to rest.

Guilt and shame and anger follow him down to the cellar.

## ❦

Quirin waits for the footfalls on the stairs and the quiet _creak_ of old hinges that indicate Varian has gone to bed before he makes himself a drink and pulls a chair up to the smoldering hearth in the kitchen. He stares into the flames as he drinks, seeing nothing but the bubbled, cherry-red skin on his son’s face.

He’s a fool.

A lifetime ago, he heard the rumor of King Frederic’s quest for the sundrop and raced to Herzingen to plead the case for leaving it alone. Varian hadn’t even been born yet, and Miriam—

Well.

Many things were different, then.

Frederic ignored him, as kings do. The sundrop had been found. Years passed, and Quirin dared to hope he’d been wrong; that disturbing the sundrop _hadn’t_ thrown the world out of balance after all; that the black claws of the moonstone would stay sheathed in the fields of Aphelion where they belonged and never trouble him again. He let himself believe—

Quirin drains the rest of his cider and slumps forward, cradling his brow against the cold, empty glass. _I am a fool._

And now it is happening again.

When the mark on his hand began to prickle again a few months ago, he put it down to a figment of imagination—phantasms of his past—woken, perhaps, by the passage of Varian’s fourteenth birthday; when his son would have begun his training with the Brotherhood if…

The fire crackles. Quirin gazes into it with blank weariness.

If Miriam were here, she’d take his hands in hers—smooth her thin, callused fingertips over the spitted black circle charred into his flesh—and, smiling, remind him to bear up and face whatever comes with courage. _Well, Quirin,_ she would say, _no one ever changed the world by hiding in the kitchen._

Always the braver of them, his wife.

Quirin heaves himself up with a grunt. He rinses his glass. He douses the fire and stares for a long while into the smoking grey ash and charcoaled logs in the blued darkness of his kitchen.

The brand of the moonstone throbs.

He massages it, grimacing, as he pulls on his boots and stumps out into the silent evening. No lights shine from his son’s window, and it fills him with an uneasy hope that perhaps _this_ time, just this once, Varian will heed his words—though in all likelihood the boy is just too exhausted from the rigors of his day to stay awake.

It has the makings of a peaceful night. The sky has gone a clear, soft indigo, spattered by the stars that always seem brighter here than they ever did in gloomy Aphelion. In Herrfeld everyone goes to bed with the sun, and the village is empty and quiet save for the nocturnal rustling of the small wild things that live in the woods.

But there’s something else—a frail, distant whine—a buzz inside his teeth. Any doubt Quirin may have had that Varian’s _rock_ might not be one of those that still haunt his nightmares evaporates as he tracks the noise to the far edge of his orchard.

Adira… hasn’t changed.

Maybe the creases around her eyes run a little deeper; maybe her tunic is more careworn than before. But the passage of years has preserved her the way a tree settles into age, and to see her now in the glassy blue light of the talisman cradled in her hands feels like a glimpse straight into the past he fought so hard to escape.

His breath hitches in his throat. Adira opens her eyes. She smiles, and does not move from her cross-legged position beneath his apple tree.

“Hello, Quirin.”

“Adira.”

“I met your boy earlier,” she says. “He’s growing up, Quirin.”

“Why are you here?”

“That any way to greet an old friend?” She cants her head like she’s sizing him up, evaluating his changes—(and what does _she_ see, when she looks at him? what ghosts of her past does he dredge up from the sea of things forgotten?)—and Quirin grits his teeth. Adira shrugs. “Alright. It’s good to see you again, Quirin.”

“Why are you _here,_ Adira?”

“I need your help.”

Quirin scoffs. “Oh? _You_ need my help?”

“Shocking, I know,” she mutters, with a soft, wry smile that almost— _almost_ —chips away at his unease. “But, yes. You’re still my—”

“ _No._ ”

Her gaze flicks down to the mark exposed on his his bare hand; Quirin clasps his fingers over it, nails digging in. If he could scrape it away— “I have my farm,” he says. “I have my son. That’s all. That’s all I _want._ ”

“But the black rocks are _here,_ Quirin.”

“I’ve heard.”

“And your boy has been studying them. I’ve been watching him, Quirin—”

“And you didn’t _stop him?_ ”

She doesn’t blink. Of course she doesn’t. “I stepped in when he used silver today—” a grim smile crosses her face when he blanches at that “—and took care of it.”

“His face—”

“Will heal. He’ll be fine; he’s a smart kid, Quirin.”

_How can you be so cavalier—_

Adira is _always_ cavalier.

Quirin grips his hand tighter, breathing in slow against the sick, heavy feeling in his stomach. “Varian is a _child,_ ” he says. “He has no business meddling with those rocks, and we— _you_ have no business letting him. They’re dangerous, Adira.”

“You think I’m not aware of that?”

“I won’t have any part in it,” he insists. “Not this time. Neither will Varian. I’m _done,_ Adira, I left for a reason—”

“Your boy will have a part in it whether you want him to or not,” Adira says coolly. Her fingers trace the rough edges of her talisman, which flares brighter as she leans forward, her eyes hardening. “I’ve been _watching._ The rocks call him just like they called me, like they called you. You can’t keep him away from them.”

Grinding his teeth together, he paces away—though not far. The words feel like chains anchoring him to his old sister-in-arms; or maybe it’s the song of her talisman echoing through the jagged shards of his broken oaths. “I can damn well _try._ ”

Adira shrugs. “Or, if anything remains of the sundrop—”

“Turul’s _eye,_ Adira, not this again—!”

”—it’ll be in the princess,” she continues. “We can—”

“No, _we_ are not doing anything.” Quirin glares at her; she gazes back with the tiny furrow of her brow which would, on anyone else, be a ferocious glower. “If you’re still stuck on this- this insane plan to balance the moonstone, then—”

“You’d really prefer to sit here and do nothing?”

“I am going to keep my family _safe._ ”

Hurt flashes over her face and vanishes like a lightning flicker; and even after all these years it makes his stomach clench with answering guilt. “ _We_ are family,” she says, her voice tight. “The Brotherhood—”

“Is gone, Adira.” Quirin scrubs a hand over his face. Twenty-four years and still he can’t make her _see._ “Aphelion is dead; the Brotherhood is _gone,_ and I- I need to be here for my son. He’s already lost his mother. He doesn’t need to lose his father, too.”

Her lips press together, but she says nothing, and Quirin supposes there’s nothing left to say; perhaps now she, too, feels the chasm that opened when he forsook their vows and chose this life. No amount of shared history or old kinship will bridge that gap now.

“I’m… sorry,” he mutters. “I think you should go.”

Adira rubs her thumb over the black sigil scratched into the face of her talisman, and it keens a mournful note; the mark on his hand twinges. “If that’s truly what you want.”

“It… is.”

She lids her eyes and rises in a single, fluid motion—always so _controlled,_ he thinks, with a nostalgic pang—and now Quirin can all but hear her thoughts: that the rocks will not go away, that hiding is worse than pursuing her mad quest for an opposing power to destroy the moonstone, that he is a coward and a fool and a traitor.

Perhaps she’s even right.

But he’s not a soldier anymore.

Adira tucks the talisman into its pouch on her belt, gives him a curt nod, and disappears into the thickening darkness. Quirin rubs the back of his neck for a moment, until the hairs their stop their bristling; then he turns and makes his slow way home. When he blinks, he sees the bruised and blasted fields of Aphelion in shadowed mirages behind his eyelids.

 _Someone needs to warn the King,_ he thinks, grim. _Adira won’t; and so, as usual, responsibility falls to me._

He has never felt so old.

## ❦

The plain sprawls before him; purplish, barren. Empty. A dry wind tosses dust into the air, stinging his face as it whistles past. Varian can just make out the serpentine line of a trail—an ancient road, black cobblestones sunken in the dead earth.

Overhead, the sky is starless and black.

“Hello?” he shouts. “Is anybody…”

_there, there,_

_there?_

The wind eats his voice. The desolate countryside sighs its loneliness.

Shivering, he decides there’s nothing for it but to walk along this forgotten, winding road; see where his sleeping brain takes him.

He _knows_ dreams. Dad tells him his skill for noticing them as they occur is unusual, but it has always seemed _normal_ to him; the serene confidence of knowing he’s in a world sculpted by his own imagination. Whatever pain, whatever confusion, whatever terrors a dream has in store, it’s all just random images produced by his wandering mind, and the worst that can happen to him is jolting awake in a cold sweat. But… now…

As he trots through this strange dark country, Varian can’t shake a creeping sense of unease. Besides the shrill wind, everything is silent; he can’t even hear the fall of his own feet on the weary cobbles.

And he feels- he… _feels_ —

He jogs aimlessly for what feels an eternity before he recognizes it; he feels like he’s being watched. No— _studied._ His gaze keeps scraping up to the black dome of the sky, empty of stars, and every time he stares into that abyss the conviction that _something_ is _staring back_ settles deeper into his gut. Tremors of fear skitter down his spine; his breath becomes shallow and frantic.

_Just keep moving. Just keep—_

He jogs, he jogs, he jogs, until he impales himself on the sharpening emptiness and—

“ _Stop looking at me!_ ”

Varian plants his feet into the dirt, panting raggedly as his scream echoes into stillness. The stinging wind fades with one last stagnant, dusty breath; the silence becomes absolute.

He shrinks. Shuddering, he reaches up to pinch the skin behind his ear, a signal he’s trained himself to wake for—a trick he started using to rouse himself whenever he has an epiphany in his sleep after too many nights drifting out of a dream with nothing but the lingering impression of having grasped _something_ but no memory of—

But nothing happens.

The dream hardens. The dust hanging in the air tastes acidic and dry; his skin prickles in the wintry cold. Varian tries to retreat, but his heel catches against the jut of a broken cobblestone and he slams backward into the hard ground with a force that knocks the breath out of his lungs and as he gasps for air the cold silence seeps down his throat and freezes there, bleeding out an icy paralytic that presses him into the dirt.

He rolls onto his side with a phenomenal effort, rasping. His fingers swell and blacken where he curls them into the ground. Varian has seen flesh dead and rotten with frostbite before, mixed antiseptics and painkillers to ease the pain of toes or fingers lost to the brief but bitter winters that pour down the mountains—but this is— _not that,_ this is—

 _(rock,_ his mind whispers, while he coughs against the cold)

—a gleaming, glossy black. It roots him to the ground and advances, devouring his arm and flowing over his chest with a smooth crush of ice, and Varian can do nothing but wheeze in helpless terror until stone crawls over his face, seals his throat, and—

“ _—nngah!_ ”

His blankets slide into his lap as the dream shatters. Varian grips his face, panting, his heart galloping in his chest. Moonlight pours through his window, casting the dark shapes of his furniture in harsh shades of grey; his sheets twist around his legs. He must have thrashed in his sleep—and then his mind translated the sensation of restriction into… _that._

_That’s all._

“…Hn—”

He rakes his fingers through his hair and forces out a weak chuckle.

“Just a dream,” Varian mutters, kicking his way out of the blankets and swinging himself out of bed. He pads across the room to fumble with the matches on his desk and light a candle; a small, rosy light against the cold wash of the moon. “Just… hm.”

Muttering to himself, he flops down and opens a fresh page in his notebook. Exhaustion knocked him out earlier than he planned, but now—with the needling ache of the burn in his jaw and his mind buzzing with all the theories he hadn’t written down before crawling into bed—he’s to antsy to do anything but _think._

He’ll just… have to be quiet. Make sure not to wake Dad.

“Let’s see,” he mumbles, rolling his pencil between his fingers. Pity Dad won’t let Ruddiger in the house; talking to the raccoon always feels more productive than talking to himself. “Silver, huh?”

 _Water, copper, figure out how this thing reacts to pure silver tomorrow._ He jots down a few notes in the shorthand he invented a few years back, to keep Dad from snooping on his more… tentative theories, and grimaces. Dad’s going to breathe down his neck all day tomorrow, but maybe he can slip away when Dad hits the village market in the afternoon.

It’ll mean a scolding once he gets back, but…

He’s so _close._ He can _feel_ it.

 _And if I’m lucky,_ Varian thinks, bouncing his pencil in the corner of the page, _Adira’ll be around, and I can finally get some answers._


	6. Chapter 5: Lady-in-Waiting

###  **Chapter 5: Lady-in-Waiting**

When Pete dashes into the east gallery and breathlessly announces that the Commander needs to see her about an “urgent matter,” Cassandra doesn’t waste any time. She tosses her cleaning rag to Marie, who grins and flashes her a thumbs-up from around the suit of armor she’s polishing, and then races away as fast as her stupid, inconvenient skirts will allow.

The whole city went _mad_ the night the Lost Princess returned—the celebrations are only just beginning to wind down now, more than a week later—and King Frederic was no exception. Though in _his_ case, madness looked less like parties and more like doubled patrols, a six-man security detail for the princess, and extra guard posts inside the palace itself.

It’s stretched the King’s Watch to its breaking point, and whatever barriers kept her father from giving her a chance before are crumbling too. He’s been dropping hints all week about Cassandra taking on new responsibilities and _—_

_Don’t get your hopes up._

Maybe the Janus Point investigation turned up another Saporian screed for her to translate. Maybe he’ll put her to work to train new recruits so he can free up an officer for the princess rotation. Or maybe—

Maybe he’s finally, _finally_ going to make her a probationary officer.

Nervous excitement fizzes in her gut as she lopes through the sun-soaked gallery, cuts down to the ground floor through the palace library, and ducks into the stuffy corridor leading to the barracks. There, she slows to a brisk walk, swatting at her hair and her skirts and wrestling the anxious grin off her face so she’s _ready_ when she reaches the Commander’s office.

She knocks, and her father calls, “Come in!”

He looks every inch the Commander of the King’s Watch—ramrod-straight at his desk, helmeted, hands folded atop his tidy desk—and another ribbon of hope unfurls in her chest.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes. Please sit down, Cassandra.”

Heart beating a rapid tattoo, she obeys.

“You haven’t met the Princess yet.”

_…What?_

“N- no, sir?”

The corners of his mouth twitch into the ghost of a sardonic smile. He flattens his hands against the desk. His jaw works. “She’s— hm.”

All her hope collapses into a tight knot of dread. This is not the attitude of a father about to deliver good news _or_ a commander keen to hire a promising new recruit. Cassandra grips the soft yellow fabric of her skirt, and ventures, “I’ve heard she’s a little… wild, sir.”

He nods. “Sheltered. Yes. Never set foot outside until two weeks ago, when the… when… Mr. Fitzherbert rescued her. It makes her situation… un…usual.”

“I’ve heard the story, sir.” When she tries to meet his gaze, his eyes flick away. Her stomach twists. _This is bad. This is very bad._ “What does this have to do with me?”

“…The Queen has… brought it to my attention that the Princess is in need of a lady-in-waiting who—”

_Oh no._

_Oh,_ **_no._ **

“I’m not a lady.”

“Cassandra, please let me f—”

“I’m _not a lady!_ ”

Her voice shrills into a hysterical whine; her father winces, but Cassandra can’t bring herself to _care._ There’s a ringing in her ears and poison churning in her stomach. She knows what ladies-in-waiting are like—wealthy, snobbish, titled women dribbling in the queen’s wake, gossiping and jockeying for favor while treating the palace maids like vermin; out of the whole lot of them Friedborg’s the only decent—

“—no grasp of the social niceties expected of her.” The horrified buzz of her own thoughts subside enough for her father’s voice to break through again, and Cassandra gapes at him in abject disbelief. This _cannot_ be happening. “No understanding of her new responsibilities. Her Majesty wants to give her a companion who can help her adjust; acclimate her to the realities of palace life… gently.”

“Dad, _I’m not gentle—”_

“And she fears that the young ladies of the court would take adv—”

“ _Dad!_ ”

“ _Sweetheart._ The Queen is familiar with your training, and not… unaware of your aspirations.” Her father glances at her, stern; it’s a pause pointed enough to cut. “As the Princess’s lady-in-waiting, you would be close by her side, prepared to defend her if necessary.”

“I could defend her _as a guard._ ” This is— this is a _nightmare._ It’s every plea for a chance thrown back in her face; a cruel mockery of the idea that her father could _ever_ consider her fit for the King’s Watch. “If you really think I’m good enough to be- to be some kind of _secret bodyguard_ —”

“His Majesty has been persuaded that this is a better—”

“—then let me join the Watch! Make me an officer, Dad! Give me armor, let me carry a sword, I can’t protect anybody in a _dress_. Don’t—”

“Sweetheart, how many daggers are you carrying right now?”

Cassandra shoots him her most venomous glare. “Four, but—”

“And what would you do if I drew my sword and attacked you?”

“Flip the desk and then get to the weapon rack before you recovered, but Dad that’s not—”

“ _Cassandra._ Please.” Her father sinks back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose; and maybe it’s just the change in the angle of the light on his face but suddenly he looks grey with weariness, the bags under his eyes stark. Cassandra clenches her fists, glaring with helpless, desperate rage. “I _know_ this arrangement is not what you wanted, but if you take the position, I can pull my men off the security detail and put them back on the Janus Point investigation. His Majesty was not… easy to convince. You’ve asked me what you can do to prove yourself, sweetheart; this is it.”

She quakes.

 _I want to join the Watch!_ _That’s what I’m_ meant _for—that’s what I’ve spent my whole life fighting for._

_This isn’t fair. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not fair—_

But a soft, pragmatic whisper in the back of her mind smothers the words before they can explode out of her mouth. Her father taught her more than just how to swing a sword or capture a crook; he also taught her _practicality._

None of her qualifications matter if he’s determined to stonewall her. _Fairness_ doesn’t matter if he refuses to play fair. So she can spend the rest of her pointless life polishing armor and mopping the floors, or… trot around at Rapunzel’s heels with ladylike obeisance, playing at being a bodyguard.

_Ugh._

Miserable. But a clear step up from dusting the galleries.

And if her father means what he says then maybe, just _maybe_ she can parlay this into a _real_ position in the King’s Watch once the Princess gets tired of having a grouchy commoner for a lady-in-waiting.

A chance is… a chance.

“I- fine. _Fine._ ” It’s better than nothing. _It’s better than nothing._ “I’ll do it.”

## ❦

After the nerve-wracking wait in the Osiander Street Constabulary and the strange but pleasant afternoon that followed it, Rapunzel thought she had a handle on this princessing thing. Sure, she felt overwhelmed—who wouldn’t?—but after a good night’s sleep in the luxurious bed that found its way into her room while she and Eugene dined with her parents, she awoke to a glorious sunrise pouring through her bedroom windows and rose with confidence in her ability to handle whatever life in the palace had in store.

A week later, Rapunzel thinks she may have… overestimated, a little.

It began with Friedborg, the first morning after her return. Queen Arianna visited her room not long after she awoke, with Friedborg gliding silent in her wake, and- and Rapunzel learned something nasty about herself, because while the Queen made her introductions, Rapunzel just gawked and thought—in a small, snide inner whisper that sounded too much like Gothel— _what on earth is wrong with her face?!_ And now the fact of her own unkindness ripens at the forefront of her mind, curdling into shame.

There’s _nothing_ wrong with Friedborg—she’s… unusual-looking, with bulging eyes and a beaky nose crammed into the narrow frame of her face, but—

The ruffians at the Snuggly Duckling were different; big, brutish-looking men who prided themselves on being big and brutish. They wore their scars and lumps like badges of honor; but Friedborg is…. not a ruffian, and her pleasant, gap-toothed smile had faltered before Rapunzel’s stare.

“Friedborg is one of my ladies-in-waiting,” the Queen said, while Rapunzel wrenched her manners back from that first awful thought and forced herself to stop _gaping._ “Since there are still a few details to iron out with Cassandra, Friedborg offered to show you around the palace in the interim.”

Rapunzel stammered out a thank you, frantically telling the Gothel-whisper to _shut up_ when it tried to make its— _her_ —cruel opinions known. And she can’t shake the feeling that the awkward apology she tried to make a little while later, once she was alone with Friedborg, just made things worse.

Next came Nigel Bossard, the royal steward. Meeting him was less of a disaster—he’s a tall, spindly man with a face like a nervous mouse, but nothing about him startled Rapunzel the way Friedborg had—but it also meant becoming acquainted with the concept of a schedule and the battalion of guards Dad assigned to her.

“I’m sorry about this, Your Highness,” Nigel had added in an undertone when this unwelcome bit of news made her face fall. “Between you and me, I suspect your father just needs a few weeks to… get it out of his system, and then you and he can, er, revisit the arrangement.”

It’s been a week and Rapunzel is already… disgruntled, to put it lightly. Her six guards tail her _everywhere_ —taking shifts outside her room while she sleeps, following her and Friedborg around the palace, flanking her whenever she sets foot in town, even inviting themselves along on her dates with Eugene!—and it’s like the tower all over again. Except worse, because _this_ tower slaps people out of her way.

And the _schedule_. 

Gone are the days of unstructured free time in her tower, when she could plan her days around whatever she wanted to do and dedicate weeks on end to teaching herself a new skill; because being a princess means living her days by increments dictated by Dad and Nigel.

Mostly it’s lessons with her new tutors—and Rapunzel is fast learning that despite all her reading and tower-bound experiments, she still doesn’t know anything about _anything._ She has eighteen years of education to cram into her skull in just a few weeks.

But there’s also public appearances at Dad’sside, and long hours sitting next to his throne, watching him take petitioners or sign new edicts. Endless meetings with her father and his advisors. Talk of taxes and new laws and road maintenance and trading ship charters. Piles of paperwork. The day-to-day business of running a country is somehow both more overwhelming and more _boring_ than Rapunzel could ever have guessed.

And with her schedule came a parade of Coronan aristocrats and foreign dignitaries whose names have all blurred and run together in her head, despite her best efforts to keep them straight. An anxious fog follows her wherever she goes lately. It feels like only a matter of time before she calls somebody important the wrong name and starts a war or something—

Yesterday, she met her Uncle Gilbert, who at least seems like he wouldn’t mind if she accidentally provoked a war. He came to breakfast with her and her parents, and watched her with a keen interest that made her squirm while he cut his sausages into tiny slices.

He looks like a rough sketch to Dad’s finished painting; a bit younger, a lot burlier, rougher around his edges. Thick brown sideburns bristle down his cheeks, and he’s missing half of one ear. (“Lost it in the Hvassjarn War,” he boomed cheerfully when he caught her peeking. “Selandian infantryman lopped it clean off.”)

Rapunzel rather liked him. He’s blunt and jocund, though his demeanor had cooled noticeably when Eugene strolled into the pavilion to join them.

“Good _morning,_ Your Majesty, Your Majesty, Sunshine. And, uh…” Eugene pointed inquiringly at Gilbert as he pecked Rapunzel’s cheek and slid into his seat at the table.

Gilbert just grunted, and Dad rolled his eyes and said, “Eugene, son, this is my brother, Prince Gilbert.”

“Hm.”

“Well it… is _great_ to meet you, Prince Gilbert; and, uh, may I just say, I _like_ what you’re doing with the facial– h-hair. Y’know, if you ask me, sideburns are pretty hard to pull off, but you’ve got just the face for… it…”

Only after Eugene lapsed into awkward silence did Gilbert break his silence and his stare to ask what Eugene planned to do with himself now. Eugene offered up some flippant remark about palace luxuries, and the atmosphere of the breakfast table turned prickling and uncomfortable until Friedborg arrived to whisk Rapunzel to her piano lessons and Eugene slunk away for his daily massage.

It lingers in her thoughts now, an itch she can’t scratch. Just _why,_ she can’t say, but it’s there—a small sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, hollowing out her excitement for her next engagement and transforming it into dread. She’s been itching to meeting Cassandra Morgenstern all week, but…

Pascal chirps from her shoulder, as if sensing the troubled turn of her thoughts, and she reaches up to rub his scales in mute appreciation as Friedborg leads her, Eugene, and her little fleet of guards into the solarium, where Queen Arianna and Sir Peter are waiting with Cassandra.

She’s glad of the location. The solarium is a _gorgeous_ room, affording an emerald view of the southern lawn and soaked in sunlight. Exotic potted flowers bask in the humid warmth, blossoming delicate pinks and purples and yellows against the vivid green and blue of the outside world; cozy lounges circle the floor, and tiny crystals hung from the beams of the ceiling refract the sunlight into cascades of sparkling rainbows. It’s difficult to feel uneasy in such a beautiful place.

Still, her stomach flips over with nerves as she steps inside. The honeyed morning sunlight falling through the enormous windows wraps around her with a comforting warmth; she aims a tentative smile at the dark-haired girl standing next to Sir Peter, who must be Cassandra, and receives a flat glance in response. Odd.

“Princess,” Sir Peter says, with a gruff nod.

Rapunzel greets him, and then the Queen—proud of herself for stumbling only a little over the word _mom_ —and at last, peering hopefully at the girl, ventures, “And… Cassandra?”

Cassandra dips a slow curtsey. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”

“I’m so excited to finally meet _you!_ ” Rapunzel says, tugging Eugene behind her as she flops onto one of the lounges. Cassandra blinks at her; she gazes back, fascinated.

She’s _striking._ Most of her hair is pinned back beneath a sheer blue veil, but a single curl has slipped its bindings and falls across her forehead, dark against her pale skin; she has a severe sort of face, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, and her eyes are a soft mossy-grey color that makes Rapunzel think of cloudy days and the fog misting against the mainland in the pre-dawn hours.

Clasping her hands before her, Cassandra murmurs, “Thank you, Your Highness. That’s… kind of you.”

“Please, Cassandra, call me Rapunzel! Can I call you Cass?”

“…If… you want to. Your—Rapunzel.” She glances at the Queen, who puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

“Starting today, Cassandra will be the one to show you around the palace,” the Queen says, smiling. “As well as taking up the rest of her duties as your lady-in-waiting. I hope you two will both find this to be a– fulfilling relationship.”

“I’m sure I will, Your Majesty,” Cassandra says.

“As well, today, some of the more… stringent measures Fred proposed will be relaxed,” the Queen continues. Her smile turns a little wry, and to Rapunzel’s complete surprise, she _winks._ “I’m sure Sir Peter can find better uses for his men than following you around at all hours, mm?”

“I certainly can,” Sir Peter says dryly.

“Wait, no more security detail?” Rapunzel perks up. “Really?”

“Really.”

Cassandra purses her lips at that, for some reason, but she doesn’t comment; the Queen gives her shoulder another squeeze and then steps away. “Well. I’ll leave you to get better acquainted. Sir Peter, if you’ll walk with me?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

She, Cassandra, and Eugene watch the others troop out of the solarium—Friedborg taking up the rear with a bright little wave that Rapunzel returns, grinning—and then, for a moment, there’s silence.

“Sooo, Cass.” Rapunzel tucks her feet beneath her and nestles into the cushioned lounge, beaming. “Tell me about yourself!”

“…Well.” Cassandra sinks onto another lounge. She sits very straight—stiff, almost—with her hands folded in her lap, and Rapunzel can’t help but admire her posture; Nigel and Friedborg both tried to teach her how to sit that way, but it’s a lot harder than it looks. “I’m… the Commander’s daughter.”

“My sympathies,” Eugene drawls.

The neutral expression Cass has worn this whole time sours. “I don’t remember asking your opinion—Fitzherbert, isn’t it?”

“The one and only.”

“Well thank goodness for that.” She has the chilliest smile Rapunzel has _ever_ seen. “I was worried there might be _two_ loafers with sticky fingers lazing around the palace.”

“Hey! I don’t have sticky fingers.”

Cass just lifts her eyebrows.

“…Anymore,” Eugene adds with a huff.

“Right,” she says, dry. “Anyway, Your Highness—”

“Rapunzel.”

“…Rapunzel, I have my job to do, and you have yours. If you… _want_ to know things about me, you can ask, but I would prefer to keep my personal life out of this. Please.”

“W- well, sure, but—” Frowning, puzzled, Rapunzel leans forward. She’s not sure how their friendship is supposed to work if Cassandra doesn’t share anything about her personal life, but maybe she just needs some time to warm up. “What do you want to do instead?”

Something eases in Cassandra’s shoulders, a slight relaxation, and she says, “Well, I know Friedborg’s been showing you around these past few days, but have you gotten a full tour of the palace yet? I think better on my feet.”

“So do I!” She’s on her feet in a flash, tugging Eugene up after her. “I’d love a real tour, Cass, that’s a great idea!”

“Alright, then.” Cassandra gives her a tiny smile and, rising, nods for them to follow her. “We’ll start on the ground floor and work our way up. Come on.”

## ❦

_Step and cut, step—parry!—thrust—_

Cassandra drives the point of her broadsword into the pell with a satisfying _thunk,_ then springs back, snapping the blade into a high guard. The polished steel glints in the dim lantern-light; sweat beads down her spine. _Parry-riposte._ The burlap wrapped around the top of the pell splits, bleeding tufts of dirty batting onto the old flagstones. _Step, cut low, parry— and thrust!_

Another _thunk._ She retreats from the pell, panting, her imagined opponent beaten. The broadsword slides into its sheath; a comforting weight against her hip as she walks a brisk circuit of her sanctuary in the labyrinth. Her pulse winds slowly down. She stretches her arms, flexes her wrists, rolls her shoulders, and bends to flatten her palms against the floor for a languid count of thirty, watching her shadow dribble over the worn flagstones.

Crouching, she pushes her sweaty curls away from her forehead and folds her arms over her knees. Balanced on her toes, smoothed out by working the pell, she closes her eyes and pours every last ounce of her irritation into a long, gusty sigh.

It took three days for her to realize what a colossal mistake she made when she accepted the lady-in-waiting position. Rapunzel is no mere sheltered princess. She’s a barefoot hurricane with the social grace of a toddler and an unwavering conviction that she can browbeat Cassandra into a friendship if she just acts _cheery_ enough. She makes the relentless good-naturedness of the average Coronan look downright surly by comparison.

Cassandra spent those first few days explaining to her that no, she _can’t_ just paint on the palace walls—and no, not the suits of armor either—and no, she can’t move the marble planters in the hallways or the paintings in the galleries or the fine carpets or curtains or _anything else;_ until the third day, when her frustrated snap of, “Rapunzel, _your_ creative expression creates _hours_ of extra work for the cleaning staff; is that _really_ the kind of princess you want to be?” got through as none of her earlier pleas had.

 _Then,_ a week ago, Rapunzel wandered off while Cassandra had her back turned and got herself _lost._ The whole palace erupted into pandemonium when she consequently missed her deportment lesson with Nigel, and King Frederic made it clear that Cassandra would take the blame for it if anything harmed his daughter. His fury ebbed when Rapunzel and her _idiot boyfriend_ were located safe and giggling in the bookshop on Fountain Square, but she can still feel it simmering under the surface.

So she resolved to stick to the Princess like a burr after that, for her own safety as much as Rapunzel’s. It should have been easy—Cassandra knows the palace and all its short-cuts and architectural quirks better than most men in the King’s Watch, whereas Rapunzel could get lost just wandering the stacks of the library—but Rapunzel seems to have taken the removal of her security detail as an invitation to go _anywhere_ she wants _whenever_ she wants, and it’s not like Cassandra can put her on a leash like one of the hyperactive toddlers she sometimes sees in the market.

Eugene Fitzherbert doesn’t help one bit. Cassandra gave him a chance—she _really_ did—but he’s lazy and selfish and _mean_ without a single redeeming quality to make up for it and it’s clear that he sees _her_ as just another harsh, domineering guardian; a pathetic echo of Gothel; someone he needs to rescue Rapunzel from at every opportunity. When she’s not steering the princess from lesson to lesson or enduring bone-crushing _surprise hugs!_ or muttering names into Rapunzel’s ears to get her through meals without causing any diplomatic incidents, she’s stalking after her charge and her pet rogue to put a stop to whatever harebrained adventure they’ve cooked up for themselves this time.

Never mind that she _does_ try to be discreet about following them. Never mind that she’s been squeezing as much downtime into Rapunzel’s schedule as she can, to give the Princess some space to relax from the rigors of palace life—not that Eugene _my-whole-life-is-a-spa-day-now_ Fitzherbert _needs_ more space to relax. Never mind that she isn’t invested in chaperoning so much as making sure she doesn’t get banished to a convent or booted onto a prison barge because of _their_ irresponsibility.

No, she’s just a bossy, humorless control freak—

Cassandra gulps air. She is. _Calm._ She’s calm. It’s fine.

If she shoulders her knapsack now and follows the labyrinth east, she can cross under the strait and be free and clear by daybreak. It’s packed with a change of clothes, her best cloak, a bedroll, her favorite dagger, a small hatchet, and her life’s savings—enough to purchase supplies for the road, and then passage by carriage from Malinar to Ingvarr.

She groans.

She packed the knapsack after the third time she caught Eugene and Rapunzel trying to sneak out of the palace to do… she doesn’t even want to know what. Rapunzel had nattered on about star-gazing and Eugene looked _cross_ when Cassandra grumpily invited herself along so they could sit on the lawn and Rapunzel could look at the damn stars, so she assumes he had more in mind than lazing on the grass while the Princess talked about all the constellation she’d invented while stargazing from her tower.

Raw frustration and something like despair gripped her then; she saw the rest of her life mapped out with a painful clarity in those twinkling stars, years of getting dragged along in Rapunzel’s wake for fear of enraging King Frederic and losing everything.

She _has_ to get out.

And… yet.

Rapunzel isn’t some spoilt brat. As exasperating and frustrating as it is to babysit her day in and day out, she can’t bring herself to _hate_ the Princess.

After she went to bed that night, her thoughts had spun around images of an isolated little girl with nobody in her life but her kidnapper and a chameleon, staring out the window and drawing pictures in the stars. And over breakfast the following morning, she showed Rapunzel a real chart of the stars, and the Princess spent all her free time that day devouring astronomy books in the palace library.

She _means well._ She’s just… pitifully awful at behaving herself after eighteen years left to her own devices in a tower. And for all her resentment and for all her fear, Cassandra still feels… sort of sorry for her.

So she stays, night after night, anchored by the thought of how crushed Rapunzel will be if she leaves. The knapsack is a palliative dream. Plans for escape and idle fantasies of joining the battalion in Ingvarr soothe her while she vents her frustrations on the pell; but Cassandra can’t _really_ leave _._

Sighing, Cassandra straightens up and pads across her makeshift training room. The lantern rests atop one of the moldering crates left over from the small chamber’s long-forgotten service as an ancillary equipment storage for the King’s Watch; next to it, aglow in the flickering lamplight, is the letter.

She scowls at it.

The letter… appeared in her bedroom today. Someone must have slipped inside to leave it on her desk while she was occupied with Rapunzel. A thorough inventory of her belongings confirmed that her mystery courier didn’t have sticky fingers, but—

More unsettling is the fact that she _recognizes_ that translucent white paper; and the dark red ink, the elegant hand of the address, the serpent-and-stars depicted on the crest.

Rosalia Morcant has _no_ business sneaking letters into her room.

She should just burn the thing—if the Duchess had some legitimate reason for writing, she’d have sent the letter to someone… legitimate—but curiosity gnaws at her, too sharp to ignore.

Lips pursed, Cassandra settles cross-legged on the floor, breaks the seal, and shakes out the letter. All… three pages of it. Eyebrows raised, she reads:

_Madam,_

_It saddens me to learn that no exceptions can be made for the sake of my scholarly interest, but I cannot say I’m altogether surprised. Ah, well._

_I admit, I’m a little dubious as to the offered compromise. Here in Quintonia, rumors abound of Corona’s relentless good cheer and… enthusiastic, shall we say, holidays. You see, I am more at ease among books than people, and as such the notion of subjecting myself to raucous celebratory crowds fills me with no small amount of dread. This is the foremost reason for this letter, in fact, and my reason for writing to_ _you_ _rather your father._

 _As you are a young woman only a little younger than I, I would appreciate whatever insight you could offer regarding the accuracy of these rumors; how difficult would it be to arrange a peaceful,_ _quiet_ _visit during one of, if I am not mistaken, Corona’s largest holidays? Do you enjoy the holidays yourself? (I ask because experience has taught me that festive people have a very poor grasp indeed of how miserable recluses like myself find their festivities, and I’m afraid I must rate your advice against your own preferences in this matter.)_

 _Yet I will confess that this is… not my_ _sole_ _purpose in writing to you. What do you know of my country, Miss Morgenstern? I would wager not very much; we’re a small duchy of no especial renown, and besides our long-standing arrangement with the Kotoans and my personal presence in the international book trade, we have little to do with the Seven Kingdoms. But of course our very insignificance demands we pay very fine attention indeed to what you do—as the mouse must watch the cat with care when it ventures out in search of food._

_All of that is to say, naturally, I have contacts in Herzingen who keep me apprised of the important goings on within the court and the temperament of your king and so forth. Nothing nefarious, of course—just politics—but I do fancy myself rather well-informed on the inner workings of your palace. And yet until your letter arrived, I hadn’t the least idea that you existed. You, the daughter of the Commander of the King’s Watch! This seemed such a critical oversight that I set out to learn all I could about you, which as it turned out was very little (though all of it, I assure you, very good)._

_So now I know that you are Sir Peter’s daughter and a member of the housekeeping staff in the palace. Also, that you are better-educated than can be expected for a commoner—when I mentioned your name to my cousin Ampelio, he remembered you favorably as his classmate in the Sonnenhaus—which piques rather than sates my curiosity._

_Quintonia has no shortage of young men and women, but precious few of them are not preoccupied with less—to use the common phrase—“dry” matters. Most of my friends are my elders by decades and scattered far and wide across the continent. At times it does become rather lonely. Will you indulge me by sharing a little about yourself, Miss Morgenstern?_

_Do you enjoy your work in the palace? Does it leave you much time to read—for that matter, do you enjoy reading? I know that an education is as likely to instill a hatred for it as a love._

_And… of course I will understand if you decline to answer this—I’ve no doubt the safety of your no-longer-Lost Princess must be of utmost concern right now, and assurances of good intentions from strange foreigners count for little, I know—but curiosity demands that I ask. You are living in a great moment of history, Miss Morgenstern. Your Lost Princess has returned—such an astonishing and happy turn of fortune for Corona!—and, living in the palace, you are in the heart of it all. What is it like? What is she like? Are the wild tales of endless drunken revels in the street true? To hear some tell it there has never been a city more debauched or decadent than Herzingen now, but I have my private doubts that_ _anyone_ _could sustain a party for quite that long—even in Corona._

_Please do respond. I’m eager to hear from you._

_I remain, Madam, your curious friend,_

_Her Grace Rosalia Morcant,_

_Duchess of Quintonia._

Cassandra lets the final sheet fall into her lap, bemused. The suggestion that a _duchess_ —a sovereign!—could be bored and lonely enough to write to random foreign _maids_ is so ridiculous that she dismisses it out of hand; no, Morcant’s true intentions must be more sinister.

Considered in that light, the pointed questions about Rapunzel make her neck prickle with unease—but given Morcant’s recent inquiries about the Journal…

Yes, she decides as she skims the letter again, this _must_ be about the Journal somehow. This… effort to make Cassandra a participant in Morcant’s plan to visit Herzingen; then making a point of mentioning her upbringing and—

_…Oh._

Her heart falls like a stone through cold water.

Her… adoption and the circumstances surrounding it aren’t exactly secret, and even if they were, Cassandra can’t escape the features that mark her as _Saporian—_ the thick curls, her hazel eyes, aquiline nose and angular face—and it doesn’t take a scholar to add two to two to get four. Of course the Saporian child Sir Peter brought home eighteen years ago came from one of the Separatists who were executed, _very publicly,_ around the same time.

_So that’s the angle._

She grits her teeth. Make… overtures of friendship to the Saporian in the palace, ferret out some secret burning desire to commit treason _just like her parents_ and then… what? Sneak Morcant into the vault? Steal the Journal?

Her anger blazes to life, irradiating every corner of her mind with a hot reddish glare. She can just _see_ it: Morcant pouring over letters from Corona, smirking as she pieces together the basics of Cassandra’s history and concludes that her ancestry makes her a traitor.

 _How dare_ _she assume my blood defines me?_

Cassandra swallows the furious scream rising in her throat and folds the letter, hands trembling. _I’ll show her,_ she thinks, the thought wild and tinged with the crackling red of fire. _I’ll write back and let her think she’s playing me, but I’ll be the one playing her. And when she springs whatever trap she thinks she’s building, I’ll expose her and prove to_ everyone _that I’m worthy of Corona’s trust._

_I am more than who my parents were._

## ❦

If there’s one thing to be said for the lady-in-waiting position, it’s that even following a princess as exuberant as Rapunzel around all day is easier work than scrubbing the palace. Cassandra can just… sit and watch and _think_ while Rapunzel attends her lectures, and over the next few days, she uses that time to mull over her response to Morcant’s letter.

Her training and limited experience assisting her father with Watch business have made her a good fighter and a good—potential—officer, but translating Separatist propaganda hasn’t exactly prepared her for this. _Intrigue_ is a little out of her wheelhouse.

The best thing, she decides, will be to adapt one of the tactics her father’s men use to interview suspects, and act oblivious. Appear trusting, make small talk, ask innocent questions. Get Morcant to think she’s a gullible, frustrated idiot. Once she establishes a friendly rapport, she’ll glean whatever information she can, and go from there.

She’s halfway through composing the letter in her head one sultry afternoon when Rapunzel’s history tutor, Master Vernors, segues from a dull discussion of the construction of the Gottschalk Reservoir into the campaign to extend Corona’s roads into the south, and she sits up to pay attention. It’s an exciting tale—King Herz der Sonne championed the effort early in the Unification Period, but it slowed to a crawl when the last fragments of Saporian resistance began to raid the constructions camps and the freshly-unified country almost exploded into open warfare again—but to her dismay, Vernors spends the whole lesson droning on and _on_ about the economic importance of the roads themselves and leaves out all the bloody parts _completely._

Rapunzel listens with such rapt attention to the whole lecture that by the end of it, Cassandra’s beginning to wonder whether the Princess is even _capable_ of boredom. It’s almost a relief when they leave the little parlor where Vernors holds his lessons and Rapunzel leans closer, sheepish, and whispers, “I’m sorry, Cass, but I just- I was thinking about some paintings I want to do later. I don’t remember a single word he said. Did I miss anything important?”

Cassandra chokes on her laugh. “N- _no,_ definitely not. King Herz der Sonne built a lot of roads in southern Corona after the War of Unification. Master Vernors left out all the gory details, but, you know, that’s the gist.”

“…Roads have gory details?”

“Saporian rebellions do,” Cassandra says lightly. “Der Sonne stamped it out in the end and now there’s roads. Say, listen—you don’t have anything else today until dinner with your parents, and we’ve both just been bored out of our _minds._ How about I show you something a little more… interesting?”

She’s not exactly sure why she asks. Maybe it’s the novelty of Rapunzel admitting a negative feeling about anything, however slight. Maybe she’s just too antsy to cope with sitting around for hours watching Rapunzel paint.

“Yes!!” Rapunzel squeals, launching forward to wrap her up in one of those over-excited hugs. Cassandra wheezes, regretting. “Yes, that sounds like so much _fun!_ ”

”Uh-huh—”

Beaming, Rapunzel seizes her arm and half drags her down the corridor, and it’s like a dam breaking: “You’ve been so much help to me these past few weeks and I really don’t know what I’d’ve done without you to show me around and help me adjust because it’s all so _new!_ but Cass—don’t get me wrong, you are a _great_ lady-in-waiting, but I want to be great friends, too. Mom says a lady-in-waiting is a constant companion and a friend and a confidante and—”

_Ohhh boy._

“I’m not a normal lady-in-waiting, Rapunzel.”

Cassandra nudges her elbow into the Princess’s side to get her to turn onto the staircase leading down to the ground floor; when Rapunzel gets like this, it’s easiest to just glide after her and steer and hope for the best. The slim, diminutive girl doesn’t _look_ it, but she’s strong enough to— well, pull a woman up into a tower with her _hair,_ if the rumors are true.

“Why not?”

It really is… something, the confusion in Rapunzel’s eyes. _Something,_ that the princess really does not grasp the difference between Cassandra and her mother’s ladies. It might be nice if it weren’t so _stressful._

Sighing, Cassandra says, “I’m– I was a _maid,_ Rapunzel. Most ladies-in-waiting are… _ladies._ Lesser nobility, with their own wealth and status. Friedborg’s mother is a marchioness, for example. I’m just—” She bites her lip. Her aspirations are an open secret and have been for years, but Rapunzel has a knack for staying blithely unaware of things everybody else knows but never talks about it, and the same awkward pity that eases her frustrations makes her reluctant to actually say _I hate being your lady-in-waiting and I’m only doing it to prove I can be trusted with real responsibility so my father will let me join the King’s Watch_ to the princess’s face. “—not.”

“…Mom said she thought you’d be a perfect lady-in-waiting for me.”

_I’ll bet she did._

“Well- I think that’s because you and I are… similar, in one specific way.”

“Really? How?”

“Really. Did you—” A second layer of regret sweeps over the first, but she’s seen the princess in action often enough in the past month to know that if she stops now, Rapunzel will just ask and _ask_ until she’s dragged it out of Cassandra by siege. Better to just get it over with. “Did she tell you anything about my, um, background?”

“No?”

That’s _something,_ at least. Cassandra pushes her fingers through her hair, scowling. “I’m adopted,” she says. “My parents are— _were_ … criminals.”

 _Separatists. Rebels._ Sometimes she feels like the crimson pins her father uses to mark out the crimes of the movement are embedded in _her_ skin, too, a silent, invisible brand everyone can see.

“…Oh. Oh, Cass—”

“Dad found me when he and his partners arrested them. He… took me in. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent—I spent a while in and out of the orphanage down Herschel street—but after a few years he officially adopted me. I was almost eight, then. And your mom, I think, felt sorry for me, so she paid for me to attend school in the Sonnenhaus. So… in… a way, my childhood was a lot like what you’re dealing with now. Going from a… a not great situation to learning how to fit in with, you know. All of this. I guess she thought I’d be better than some noblewoman at helping you with the transition, because… that.”

She braces herself for more babbling. More questions. But Rapunzel just grabs her hand in a tight squeeze, her eyes wide and misty. “Thank you for telling me,” she whispers.

Her face feels like it’s on fire. _I wasn’t looking for pity, Rapunzel!_

“It- it’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me! And. Mom was right,” Rapunzel declares. “You _have—_ you’ve helped me _so_ much, Cass. You’re the only person who- who really _explains_ things to me. I hope you know how grateful I am.”

“You do keep thanking me, Your Highness.”

Rapunzel jostles her arm, suddenly all sunny smiles again. “ _Rapunzel,_ Cass.”

“Rapunzel,” Cassandra concedes, swallowing a weary sigh and a protest of _but we’re not friends._

“And tell me where we’re going! I’m so curious.”

Relieved by the change in subject, Cassandra tosses her a nervous little grin and tugs her down the last turn. “You’ll see.”

The Princess all but vibrates with impatience as Cassandra steers her out of the palace and across the lawns to the palace stables. Right before she slides open the doors, Cassandra catches Rapunzel’s eye with another grin.

“You ready?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Okay.”

She tugs. The door rolls open, and Rapunzel _gasps_ —full of the same soft wonder and delight Cassandra remembers feeling the first time _she_ saw the inside of the stables. Satisfaction unfurls in her chest, warm and smug.

“ _Right?_ ” Digging an elbow into Rapunzel’s ribs, she adds, “Go on—say hi.”

With a tiny, gleeful sound, Rapunzel makes a beeline for the stalls, and Cassandra, chuckling, leaves her stroking noses and rubbing foreheads to duck into the tack room for a spare pair of riding boots.

As she emerges again, she hears a cry of, “ _Max!_ ” and then Rapunzel’s voice goes gooey as she continues, “Oh, I _missed_ you! Who’s a good boy, _you’re_ a good boy, yes you are, you _are,_ what a _good_ horse—”

Amused, Cassandra drifts down the aisle to Max’s stall, where Rapunzel is babbling at the prized stallion of the King’s Watch as if he’s a small, fluffy puppy. Max looks like he’s about to melt into the ground, his head sunk low over the stall door and his eyelids drooping with enjoyment while Rapunzel rubs the swirl of pure white hairs between his eyes.

“You know that’s a highly-trained watch horse, right?”

“Of _course_ he is,” Rapunzel coos. Max heaves a deep, contented sigh, pressing his forehead into her palm.

“So don’t you think all the… baby talk is maybe a little undignified?”

Snickering, the Princess smooths out Max’s forehead and strokes the length of his nose. “I don’t think Max cares.”

“He’d tolerate anything if there was petting in it for him,” Cassandra says gravely. “Or apples. The traitor. C’mon, put these on.”

She thrusts out the riding boots, which might as well be enraged vipers with the way Rapunzel looks at them. “Um. Cass, I… _really_ don’t like shoes.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed. But these are reinforced riding boots to protect your feet, in case a horse steps on you or something.”

“Max wouldn’t do that!”

“Max is a _horse,_ and they’ve got four legs to keep track of. Accidents do happen, and, Rapunzel, if you break your foot on my watch your dad might _actually_ kill me. Besides—” she pushes the boots at Rapunzel with what she hopes is implacable finality “—what would you rather do, wear boots for an hour or two, or wear a giant plaster cast for a couple of _months?_ Broken bones with no healing magic are no joke, trust me.”

Rapunzel takes the boots.

Grinning, Cassandra strides back to the tack room with a spring in her step to collect Max’s things; when she returns, Rapunzel is gazing down at her freshly shod feet, morose.

Good thing Cass knows the perfect way to cheer her up.

“Want to learn how to saddle a horse?”

Most of the aristocrats Cassandra knows would say _no, that’s what grooms are for,_ but Rapunzel lights up. “ _Yes!_ ”

“Right! Get in here.”

Max waits patiently while Rapunzel gets a feel for the heft of the saddle and the swing of it so it settles gently over his withers. Once she’s gotten the hang of it, Cassandra talks her through the process of buckling everything into place, pulling down the stirrups, bridling—with a detour through _soft hands_ when Rapunzel asks if the bit will hurt him—and, finally, how to lead a horse on the ground.

“So are we… going somewhere?” Rapunzel asks as Cassandra directs her to wait at the front of the stables. Cassandra just cocks an eyebrow at her with a jaunty grin and strolls back down the aisle to get Fidella ready.

“And who is _that?_ ”

“Fidella,” Cassandra replies, feeling unduly smug about the admiration shining in Rapunzel’s voice. “My ride, when she’s not on the job.”

“She’s _beautiful._ ”

“Oh, careful now,” Cassandra drawls as she leads Fidella into the sunlight and gestures for Rapunzel to mount up at the block. “Max might get jealous, and we can’t have _that,_ hm?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Max—you’re still my favorite.”

Cassandra eyes her posture for a moment while Rapunzel fidgets in the saddle. _Ah._ “You’ve… never ridden solo before, have you, Rapunzel?”

“Um.” She flushes. “No.”

“It’s fine. Here—” She steps closer, reaching up to adjust Rapunzel’s grip on the reins, then swings herself onto Fidella’s back and nudges the mare around to show the Princess her profile. “Try to sit like me,” she says. “Center yourself in the saddle, don’t slouch, keep your shoulders back and relaxed. Toes point straight ahead, heels down—don’t jam your feet into the stirrups. Hold the reins firmly like I showed you, but don’t tug or pull on them. Soft hands, remember?” Rapunzel nods. “Max is trained to respond to light cues from your seat and legs. Look where you want to go, let your body shift in that direction, and he’ll follow you. If you need a harder turn, lift your hands—like this—and tap his neck with the reins. Right to go left, left to go right—it’s a _nudge,_ not a pull. Got all that?”

“I—think? so, yes.”

“You’ll do fine,” Cassandra says. “Click your tongue and touch his sides with your heels to go forward or speed up, and give _gentle_ pressure into the reins to slow down or stop. C’mon—we’ll do a few loops in the paddock until you get a feel for it, and then we’re heading to the beach.”

## ❦

They stick to the side streets on their way down. It’s— _fine,_ doing this, she keeps telling herself; King Frederic hasn’t _said_ Rapunzel’s not allowed to leave the palace without his permission, but it still pushes the line further than she’s… comfortable with.

_This was stupid._

But they make it to the north beach without any guards leaping out to stop them, and as soon as they’ve guided the horses off the cobblestones and onto the pale sand, a knot of tension in her gut unravels and she decides that, stupid or not, she’s glad. Her shoulders fall; she relaxes into the saddle, breathing in the salty air and savoring the way it scrapes the stagnant taste of the palace out of her lungs.

“This is _amazing,_ ” Rapunzel breathes. She leans over Max’s neck, staring down the beach with her eyes gone huge, and Cassandra hums her agreement as she leads them further down the beach to the damp, firm sand on the edge of the tide line.

Surf rolls over the beach in hushed waves, deep and clear, glinting in the sun. Clumps of seaweed sprawl over the wet sand, and gulls flutter down the shore, pecking at crabs and eyeing the horses with the shrewd indifference of inveterate thieves sizing up their marks as she and Rapunzel they trot slowly down the beach.

“I come down here whenever I need to clear my head,” Cassandra says. The Princess beams at her, alight with a joy that seems… purer, somehow, than her constant smiles in the palace. “I like the quiet.”

“I am _so_ going to paint this!” Off Cassandra’s skeptical glance, she adds, “ _On_ a canvas. Like a responsible artist who doesn’t make messes for her hard-working maids to clean up. And then… maybe you’d like to have it?”

“Your painting? Sure.” Anything to encourage not painting on the walls. Smiling, she gives Rapunzel’s posture a critical once-over, and, deeming it passable, says, “How d’you feel about trying a canter?”

“Ooh! Can we?”

“Mmhm.”

She spends the next few minutes going over the basics, wrapping up with, “—and remember, Max is a professional and he knows what he’s doing. He’ll take care of you if you let him; don’t saw the bit, keep your hands light and your body relaxed, and grip with your knees, not your feet. You’ll do great, and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Got it!”

Max flicks his ears forward as Rapunzel gives him the cue, gathers himself with a swish of his tail, and flows forward into an easy, graceful canter; Cassandra gives it a count of five before she nudges Fidella to follow.

They stream over the beach at a smooth pace. Cassandra watches Rapunzel attentively at first, searching for any hint that she’s slipping or for signals—however slim the chance—that Max might be about to grab the bit and bolt, but the Princess settles into the rhythm of the gait and Cassandra relaxes. The sea breeze whiffles through her hair. She lets herself sink into the tranquil emptiness that always swallows her when she rides. Nothing but the wind and the wide open sky and the connection to Fidella through her seat and her hands, the ground ahead and the soft drumbeat of hooves on the thin strip of sand at the edges between land and sea; ahead of her, Rapunzel laughs, breathless, a sound somehow as natural a part of the beach as the squalling gulls and frothing surf, and, feeling reckless, Cassandra leans forward and shouts, “If you want to go faster, give him a nudge!”

A second later, Max snorts, lowers his head, and surges ahead.

“Go get him, girl,” Cassandra whispers.

Fidella leaps into a faster canter, almost a gallop; her hooves catch the edge of a receding wave and Cassandra whoops as the cold spray splatters her face.

They eat up the beach, not stopping until the steady curve of the shore brings them into view of houses in the west, where the sand slopes up into a shelf of stone worn smooth by centuries of storms. Rapunzel’s still laughing, wild and happy, as they ease the horses down into a trot, then a slow walk, and as Cassandra draws Fidella abreast with Max, she and the Princess exchange matching grins.

“Cass, this- this was _incredible,_ ” Rapunzel gasps. She reaches into the narrow space between the horses, and without thinking Cassandra leans over and clasps her hand. “ _Thank_ you.”

Swinging her hand a little, Cassandra says, “You know, Raps, you’re the princess; if you want to make this a regular thing, just say the word.”

“I’d _love_ that.”

“Then I’ll talk to Nigel about scheduling regular riding lessons for you. There’s some good trails on the mainland I can show you.”

“Could Eugene come?”

Of course.

“I… don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Wincing, Cassandra lets her fingers slip through Rapunzel’s loose grip. She wishes she could just say _no,_ but, well. Princess. “These horses do belong to the guard, and Eugene– has been pardoned, but I think Dad would still… not be pleased to let a barely-reformed horse thief ride them.”

“…Oh.” Rapunzel’s face falls. “But if he says it’s alright…?”

 _He won’t,_ Cassandra thinks, with an intense rush of gratitude for her father’s hatred of Eugene, but she says, “Sure! Like I said, you’re the princess. But, Your Highness, we really need to head back to the palace now—wouldn’t want to make you late for dinner.”

“Oh, right! Lead the way, Cass.”

She tries not to let it weigh on her too much, the prospect of tainting her—their, now—rides with _Fitzherbert’s_ company. Her father would never let it happen, anyway. It’s fine.

Still, it presses down on her stomach, a cold weight, as they wend their way up the smaller streets back to the palace. Riding is… it’s _hers,_ it’s one of the few things she does to relax, and taking Rapunzel with her had been… impulsive to say the least. And the Princess turned out to be a good riding companion—fun, even!—but she can’t imagine the same being true of Fitzherbert. The very thought makes her skin crawl.

_Enough. It’s not going to happen._

_Breathe._

Cassandra shoves the sour thoughts aside with all the force she can muster. By the time they reach the stables, she feels almost relaxed again.

Almost.

## ❦

Sometimes.

It’s– an awful thing, and it creeps up on her in fits and starts, but as the days become weeks and Rapunzel starts to settle into the daily rigors of her schedule, sometimes—

She just—

She misses her tower, sometimes.

Herzingen is beautiful and _big_ and bursting with stories and people and _life,_ but it’s also… strict. The only rule in her tower had been _don’t go outside;_ within those walls, she could do as she pleased. She had been… free, inside her cage.

Now she’s a princess and her world is larger and more exciting than she ever dreamt it could be, but it feels like every day another bar of expectation slams down. The last thing Rapunzel wants is to be _ungrateful,_ and it’s not like she wants to go back to the tower, it’s just…

She does… miss it, a little, maybe. Sometimes.

If it weren’t for Cass—

“What’s on your mind, Sunshine?”

And Eugene.

Her shoulders fall out of their hunch as his callused fingertips thread through the brunette hair she’s _finally_ getting used to. Rapunzel scoots closer to him, leaning into the crook of his arm so they can both look out the window, over the balcony of her bedroom and down the lush green-and-white tumble of the island, the glassy blue of the sea beyond. It’s a _beautiful_ view.

She sighs. “There’s… so much, Eugene.”

Eugene tucks his arm around her waist; it’s nice—warm and gentle, a soft counterpoint to the thrill of the afternoon’s ride—and Rapunzel closes her eyes, nestling into his embrace. _Some_ parts of her new life are simple.

“Hey, Rapunzel. It’s okay to feel… daunted by all of this. No one ever said being a princess would be easy.” His nose bumps the back of her head, and Pascal, who’s dozing on her shoulder with his tail coiled behind her neck, churrs sleepily as she sways. “But no one expects you to handle it all right away, and you’re not alone. I’m here, and your parents…”

“And Cass?” Rapunzel says, sly; she can’t resist.

He groans. “Yes, even the Dragon Lady. I gotta admit, I don’t get why it’s so important to you to be friends with Cass _an_ dra, but—”

“She has a good heart, Eugene.” Rapunzel smiles, snuggling closer. This has become a familiar little disagreement since Cass came into her life, and though she can’t figure out why they both hate each other so much, teasing him about it is an easy distraction from the odd… discomfort crawling around in the periphery of her mind. “Sure, she’s kind of prickly, but she’s so _smart,_ and honest, and—”

“—soulless and icy—”

“—and _real,_ ” Rapunzel says firmly. “I think she just needs some time to warm up, that’s all. You should’ve seen her when we went riding this afternoon; it was like she was a completely different person. She just— she was _happy,_ Eugene.”

“Happy? _Cass-_ an- _dra,_ really?”

“Yes! And I want to be friends with that Cassandra. The one who- who loves horses and the sea and whose eyes light up when she laughs. She’s a _good person,_ Eugene.”

He kisses the back of her head, quiet for a moment; thinking it over, she hopes. At length he says, “Look, Rapunzel, I just… don’t want you to get hurt, if—”

“Cass isn’t going to _hurt_ me. Come on, Eugene.”

“No, not like that, Sunshine, it’s more… Hm.” He eases away, shifting them both so he can look her in the eye. Clasps her hand between both of his. “I see you pouring so much effort into being her friend. And I think that’s admirable, _really,_ I do, but sometimes- sometimes people just aren’t meant to be. And, you know, at the end of the day, if Cassandra doesn’t want to be your friend, well, no amount of you trying’ll change that. Don’t… get so hung up on trying that you forget friendship’s not a one-person job.”

“But I _know_ Cass and I can be friends. I can feel it.”

His eyes are dark and troubled as he studies her, but Rapunzel just stares back, _willing_ him to understand. She just— she’s a good judge of character, and she can tell Cass isn’t as cold or unfriendly as she acts.

“Sometimes you just know,” she repeats.

“Okay.” A small smile curls his mouth. “I guess your intuition _has_ been right before; after all… you believed in me, too, and look how we ended up. Maybe you’re right about Cass, too.”

Rapunzel beams. “Thank you Eugene.”

“Mm-hm.”

A more comfortable quiet settles then. She leans against him again and gazes out the window, content. The sun rests against the horizon, burnishing the sky and making the vibrant gardens of Herzingen shine like gemstones between the colorful shingled roofs and gleaming white streets; ships rock gently with the tide in the harbor, their huge masts reduced to spindly twigs by distance, their gilded flanks brighter than ever in the rich twilight.

—And the _sky!_ It ripens into sunset, gold and red and orange and pink, purpling as it curves up from the horizon; not a cloud in sight anywhere. Like everything else in Herzingen it’s so much _bigger_ than she imagined from inside her tower, where the rugged walls of the ravine blocked so much of it from her view and—

“…Sunshine?”

She shoots him an apologetic grin as she disentangles herself from his lap. “Sorry, Eugene, I just…” With a helpless shrug, she hurries across her bedroom to gather up her paints, and Eugene makes a low _aha_ noise. “…gotta…”

“Hey, when inspiration calls…” He winks, stretching out his legs and striking a ridiculous pose against the cushions of the window seat. “Think you could fit me into your latest masterpiece?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be the same without your beautiful face,” Rapunzel replies, matching his wink and earning herself another chuckle. Eugene tucks his arms behind her head, watching her with an intent _fondness_ that makes her blush as she readies her palette and juggles the easel Cass acquired for her last week into position in front of the window.

Humming, she snags two canvases from the stack by the corner. She’ll paint the sunset, and then she’ll paint the beach; and the nagging, muttering thoughts in the corners of her awareness don’t _matter._ Today’s been a good day, and tomorrow will be better, and on and on until everything is perfect.

Rapunzel smiles, and begins to paint.

## ❦

 _Dear Madam,_ Cassandra writes,

_It’s true we Coronans love our holidays, but debauched and decadent aren’t the words I would use. Our celebrations are… elaborate, but not wild; even when our Princess returned, the rowdiest it got was a few dozen people getting drunk and singing the anthem in the middle of the night. Badly. Dad was very exasperated about it._

_As for Unification Day, it’s… difficult to avoid, I’m afraid. Steer clear of any “poetry competitions”—they’re always awful—and prepare to stomach a lot of pink banners and paper hearts and general romantic drivel._

_If you like Dunst’s history plays, the Herzingen Players do Our Country’s Peace every year—unlike the poetic citizenry, they’re pretty good—and I think you could acquire a private box without too much trouble. It does always lean on the romantic side, though, so if you’re interested in the_ _history_ _part you’d be better served just visiting the Archive._

_The Journal viewings never get much traffic. It’s a dusty old book on a plinth, not much of a crowd pleaser. If you come later in the day you may even be able to get in alone._

_I hope all that helps?_

_I remember your cousin! He was a year behind me, as I recall, but I always liked him well enough. Me being a commoner, only there by Her Majesty’s patronage, I’m afraid I was something of an outcast, but Ampelio always treated me with kindness when we happened to cross paths. If you think it’s the kind of thing he’d appreciate, please pass my fond regards on to him._

_In all honesty I did_ _not_ _enjoy working as a maid. It’s a hard, dirty, boring, and thankless job, and our housekeeper—Mrs. Crowley—is… not an easy woman to work for. Happily, I was recently granted the honor of serving as the Princess’s lady-in-waiting, and it is a definite improvement! You’re right that I can’t talk about her much, but she’s nice enough, and following her around all day is a lot pleasanter than cleaning._

_I do like to read—I didn’t have the time for it as a maid, but nowadays I do. I sit in on all of Her Highness’s lessons and read while her tutors work with her; mostly history. I find it very interesting._

_Speaking of history—to be honest, your first letter surprised me a little! The love letter is, in my opinion, the least noteworthy entry in the Journal. King Herz der Sonne also recorded every battle he commanded, the movements of supplies and troops through his labyrinth, information about Saporian troops, details of his day to day life… It’s the most detailed account of the War of Unification in existence, but because of the maps, nobody is allowed to read it! A shame, isn’t it?_

_At the risk of sounding impertinent, Your Grace, I think it’s only fair for you to tell me a little about yourself. Obviously I don’t have any contacts in Quintonia, so you have me at a disadvantage. Who are you, besides a reclusive sovereign who deigns to write friendly letters to a common servant like me?_

_With_ —and here Cassandra pauses for almost a full minute before deciding that an overly familiar valediction will make her sound _just_ the right amount of naive— _many regards,_

_Cassandra Morgenstern._

That should do it.

While the ink dries, she gnaws on the tip of her quill and reads the letter over again, proud. It’s rambling and familiar and a touch too _eager,_ and if she’s right about what Morcant wants, the implication that a stupid, silly maid has read the Journal will be blood in the water. Morcant’ll respond with a flood of probing questions, and that should get her to reveal more of what she’s _really_ after.

Pleased, Cassandra sets the letter aside, stretching a cramp out of her hand. Owl, who watched her write from his perch beside her desk, trills softly for her attention, and warbles his approval when she reaches up to stroke the soft feathers of his breast.

“Just you wait, Owl. She won’t know what hit her.”


	7. Chapter 6: Uneasy Lies the Head

###  **Chapter Six: Uneasy Lies the Head**

Quirin kneels before his King.

It is late, and the office where Frederic elected to meet him lit by nothing but a candle; the hot darkness of the night presses close, a smothering shroud upon his shoulders.

He says, “Your Majesty, I bring urgent news from Herrfeld.”

“So Sir Peter told me,” Frederic replies. Weary impatience tinges his voice; he must have been roused from his sleep, for his hair is rumpled and he wears a dressing gown, hastily fastened. “What is it, Quirin?”

“Sir, I do not… know if you recall our… conversation, during the search for the sundrop flower,” Quirin begins. He glances at Commander Morgenstern, who stands at Frederic’s side; armored, even at this hour, and with such a tiredness in his eyes that Quirin cannot help feeling some kinship with the man. It’s a look he wore often, in the months before Aphelion fell.

“I do,” Frederic says, stiffening. “And you may speak freely of it in front of Sir Peter, Quirin. I would trust the Commander with my life.”

Quirin bows his head. “Then I will be plain,” he says. “The black rocks I told you of then are now growing in the forest south of Herrfeld. They are yet sparse, but… painful experience has taught me that where one appears, dozens more will follow.”

“Black rocks?” the Commander murmurs; but Frederic only sighs. When Quirin lifts his gaze from the shadowed flagstones, he finds the King staring past him, his expression bleak.

“So this… darkness you warned me of all those years ago has come due.” Frederic folds his hands behind his back, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I… see. This is troubling news, Quirin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What can be done?”

 _Nothing._ Quirin steels himself, and says, “Sir, the rocks are unbreakable, and they root into the bedrock; in thousands of years no man has found a way to remove them once they grow. The only guarantee of safety from them is avoidance. Ensure that… people are kept away.”

“I see.”

“And…”

He came to Herzingen to say it; but now that the moment is come, Quirin finds himself reluctant. It feels a deeper betrayal than his mere refusal to join Adira in her reckless pursuit of the sundrop.

It will paint a target on her back.

“Yes…?”

Quirin sighs. “There is another member of my old Brotherhood in Corona, Your Majesty,” he says. “Her name is Adira Sólyom, and she seeks the power of the sundrop. She believes it is the one thing in the world capable of destroying the moonstone, and freeing the world from the… scourge of these black rocks.”

The very air itself seems to freeze while the King digests this statement, and Quirin holds his breath. At last Frederic whispers, “Rapunzel.”

“Yes, Sir. She does not believe that the magic of the sundrop is completely gone. I do not think she would harm the Princess on purpose, but…”

Commander Morgenstern clears his throat, and interjects quietly, “We can tighten security around the palace, Your Majesty. Quirin, if you can provide a physical description…”

“Good,” Frederic says, with a sudden decisive snap in his voice. “Yes; Quirin, please share whatever you can with Sir Peter to aid him in protecting my daughter. And then, I trust I can count on your assistance in keeping people away from these rocks…?”

“Of course, Sir.”

Frederic nods and offers him a grim thanks before leaving Quirin and the Commander to discuss the matter, one old soldier to another; and Quirin rises from the floor with a wince—his knees are not what they once were—and resigns himself to a sleepless night.

## ❦

The dwindling summer clutches Herzingen in its fists; its stultifying heat makes everyone in the palace listless, and even Rapunzel seems to wilt a little as the hot, sunny, stagnant days drag on. They spend every spare hour of the Princess’s days on the palace grounds, dipping their toes into the fountains or sitting in the shade of the old oak trees that line the south garden.

It’s peaceful enough. Rapunzel pours over her books or sprawls on the grass, sketching or humming or playing with Pascal, and Cassandra sits and watches her; whittling sometimes, and sometimes allowing herself to get cajoled into games of chess or discussions of the day’s lessons, but mostly letting Rapunzel’s chatter and happiness wash over her like sunlight.

Less pleasant are the days, like today, when Eugene joins them.

Cassandra stares across the lawn, trying not to listen while he raves about his latest refinements to his skin care routine and his rigorous schedule of massages and luxurious soaks in the palace baths and _blah blah blah_ —

 _How can one person be_ this _self-absorbed?_

He doesn’t even have the excuse of growing up too rich and spoiled to see beyond the tip of his ( _perfect!_ as he’s _constantly reminding everyone_ ) nose.

“—and I wouldn’t normally trust anyone but me to cut my hair, but I gotta admit, Ambroise did an _amazing_ job with the trim, just _look_ at—”

His hair looks the same as it always does: short and untidy in the artificially careless way he thinks makes him look roguish and handsome. He smooths his hands over it, oblivious to the withering look Cassandra aims at the back of his head. Rapunzel listens to him natter on with an expression of fond indulgence, an amused smile playing over her lips.

Cassandra tears up a few handfuls of grass and tosses them into the sluggish breeze, counting to sixty under her breath. When she finishes and Eugene is _still going_ about his _stupid_ haircut, she rolls her eyes and jabs her toes into the small of his back. “Why don’t you go kiss a mirror for a while, Fitzherbert? Get it out of your system before you bore me to death.”

“Oh-ho, the cobra woman speaks!” Eugene lolls his head back to grin at her, one eyebrow cocked. “Y’know, Cass _an_ dra, if you’re that jealous of my flawless, frizz-free hair, I’d be happy to share a few tips—if you ask nicely.”

“ _Jealous?_ Please. Some of us have _actual_ problems, Eugene.”

He snorts. “Yeah? What _actual_ problems do you have, oh Madam Ice Demon? Could it be the giant stick up your—”

“Eugene!”

“Maybe you’d know, Fitzherbert, if you looked away from your mirror sometime.” Cassandra rips up another handful of grass, her lip curling. “We can’t all sit around getting _pampered_ all day.”

“I pay plen _ty_ of attention, thank you very much, and from where _I’m_ sitting, Cass _an_ dra, it looks like the only problem you have is your chronic joylessness and lack of anything better to do than following my girlfriend around. And what kind of a life is that?”

“It’s called having a _job_ and _responsibilities,_ Fitzherbert,” she hisses. “I know those are foreign concepts to you but you could at least try to follow along.”

“Ah, so it’s your _job_ to be a humorless, soulless—”

“My _job_ is to keep Rapunzel safe and help her transition into her role as the Princess of Corona and heir to the throne.”

Eugene rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, Cass! She’s already the princess. Relax! Live a little! It’ll do you some good.”

“Princess isn’t just some fancy title that means you get to do whatever—”

“ _Guys!_ ” Rapunzel’s voice cuts over hers like a cracking whip, and Cassandra jumps. “Cass, Eugene, _please,_ can’t you at least try to get along? I know we’re all… a little overheated, but let’s just take a nice, deep, calming breath…”

Her eyes are wide and emerald-bright and imploring as she looks back and forth between them; Cassandra smothers a groan, but Eugene lifts his chin and announces, “I’ve got no problem with that.”

Rapunzel doesn’t see the sly quirk of his lips accompanying the words, or the smug glint in his eye, but Cassandra does; she grits her teeth, sucking in a long breath and straining it out through her nose. Conciliatory gestures aren’t her strong suit at the best of times—and Eugene all but throwing down a gauntlet _daring_ her to defend herself and take the blame for the bickering is far from the best of times.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I just want you to succeed, Raps,” she mutters. Easier, to act like it’s just her and Rapunzel; close her eyes, ignore Eugene’s existence, pretend she can’t _feel_ him smirking at her. “Being a princess isn’t… you can’t learn how to do it in a month. And I know you feel like you’re starting to get the hang of it and you’re treading water, so it’s fine—and you _are!_ —but you’ve got to keep on… keeping on, because I promise you this is _nothing_ compared to what’s going to happen in two months. That’s why—”

“What happens then?” Eugene interjects, and Cassandra snaps open her eyes to glare at him.

“Rapunzel’s going to be formally coronated as the Princess and heir on the third day of the Festival of Lights,” she says. _You should know this. You_ would _know this if you bothered to listen to anyone besides yourself._ “It begins on the twelfth of Mīthománē and continues until the equinox; Rapunzel will put in about a dozen public appearances, some of which involve speeches or ceremonial duties that she’ll need to commit to memory and rehearse beforehand; she’ll have to hold conversations with aristocrats and foreign dignitaries—some of them representing Corona’s enemies—without causing any diplomatic incidents. There’ll be dancing, banquets, ceremonies at the temple, and _everyone_ will be watching. _And_ there’s the coronation itself to get through, and that’ll be a long, complicated, _tiring_ morning on top of everything else. It’s going to be _hard._ ”

Rapunzel has gone rather pale—Cassandra doubts anyone, even Nigel, has laid it all out this plainly before—and for once Eugene’s expression has lost its permanent trace of smug self-satisfaction. She sighs, and leans over to nudge Rapunzel, just hard enough to make her sway where she sits.

“You’ll get through it, Raps. But that’s why—” she can’t resist a pointed glance at Eugene “—the more work you do to prepare _now,_ the easier the Festival will be. I’m not saying relaxation doesn’t have it’s place; that’s why we’re out here, after all. But there’s… a middle ground between taking the time to rest and spending all day lazing around. Part of my job is helping you find that middle ground.”

For a single, blissful moment, she thinks that maybe they’re listening; _Rapunzel_ is, at least, and Eugene keeps his mouth shut—but then Eugene makes a low humming noise and drawls, “I’d say _you_ need some help finding the middle ground, Cass _an_ dra _._ Rapunzel can get up to speed without you chasing us around all the time like— _rrargh._ ”

He curls his hands into claws and swipes at the air, face twisted into an exaggerated snarl, and Rapunzel’s mouth twitches with amusement. Cassandra stiffens.

“That’s… true, Cass,” Rapunzel murmurs. “I _am_ taking this seriously, I promise. I’m working hard, I’ve been studying those books Nigel gave me about the Festival—”

“—which are unbe _lie_ vably dry, by the way—”

“—and I’m meeting Uncle Ludolf tomorrow to go over the rituals. You don’t need to- to _make_ me, Cass. I’m already trying my best.”

Cassandra bites the tip of her tongue, not sure how to say outright that she’s more worried for _herself_ and what will happen to _her_ if Rapunzel falls flat on her face—not without sounding like a complete selfish monster, anyway. Instead, she pastes on a wan smile and mutters, “I’ll try to keep that in mind, Raps. And it’s not– I’m not _doubting_ you. I just…”

She has her whole future riding on this. Her whole _life._

Rapunzel scoots over the grass and envelopes her in a hug, squeezing tighter when Cassandra places an uncomfortable pat between her shoulders. Eugene gives her an unsettlingly speculative glance over the Princess’s shoulder, and Cassandra stares back with hard defiance.

 _He_ can be a useless, lazy, self-absorbed, narcissistic layabout if he really wants to; she _won’t_ let him drag her and Rapunzel down with him.

“I know you worry,” Rapunzel says. “But it’ll be okay. Really, Cass. I _promise._ And when I make a promise—”

“You never break it,” Cassandra finishes, with a tired smile. “I know. Thanks, Raps.”

## ❦

Rapunzel exhales as she lowers the candle into the reflecting pool. The dancing light of its tiny flame glints in the clear, rippling water, and the candle bobs along in until it bumps against the marble point at the center of the pool. It’ll burn there until the melting wax settles into the water and extinguishes the flame; a small, symbolic echo of the sunset.

She breathes in. She breathes out.

The temple flagstones are warm and worn smooth by generations of knees; dozens of her ancestors have knelt here before her, floating their candles, looking up at the golden sun that rises from the plinth and the rosy light falling through the stained glass windows behind it.

They walked the halls of the palace, too, but their history feels _realer_ here, and heavier. Expectation lies with its teeth against her neck, growing hungrier by the day. It’s been almost five weeks since she came to Herzingen, and she can feel the shine of tolerance for her _inexperience_ beginning to tarnish.

Maybe it’s Cassandra’s worries rubbing off on her.

“Is something troubling you, Rapunzel?”

She starts guiltily as the quiet question severs her thoughts. A bright, automatic smile settles over her face, and she folds her hands in her lap while her uncle swishes his long robes out of the way and perches next to her on the broad marble lip of the pool.

There are echoes of Dad in Ludolf’s face, but the resemblance is softer than the one between Dad and Gilbert. His broad frame has a sunken aspect, his thin cheeks a sun-starved pallor that makes him look both younger and frailer than his elder brothers—but there’s a sedate calm in his dark blue eyes that eases the tightness in her chest.

“I’m… maybe?”

“Perhaps talking could clarify your feelings.”

Sighing, Rapunzel stares across the pool. Colored wax streaks the base of the plinth beneath the water; faded pinks and soft yellows like the sprays of wildflowers that bloomed in the field beneath her tower.

“It’s…” Difficult to explain, even to herself. More than the pressure of the coronation looming on horizon, more than Cassandra’s fretting, she feels… out of place, for reasons she can’t articulate. “Gothel… told me my hair was this precious gift,” she whispers at length. _Everything comes back to her, doesn’t it?_ “And that if people knew about it they would try to steal it—take the magic for themselves—so… we had to stay in our tower. It— _I_ had to be protected from the world.”

She falters, but Ludolf just listens to her silence until she finds the words to continue.

“And then, when I escaped, I thought… I thought it was… But, then, there’s all of this…”

Fiery patterns blossom over the face of the golden sun, etched by ancient hands; like tongues of flame or the curling petals of a flower. Ludolf follows her gaze, and for a moment they study the gleaming lines together without speaking. Her fingers twist and twine in her lap as she fights the urge to reach up and touch her hair.

“Many sought the sundrop over the years,” Ludolf says quietly. “Some for noble reasons; some… less. Gothel was not alone in coveting its power.”

“I know that.” The weight of it lingers against her neck and shoulders, a phantasmal reminder that has been slow to fade. “But if she hadn’t taken me, then…”

“Who can say what would have happened?” Ludolf cocks his head at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the warmth of his smile. “Magic or no, I can’t imagine Frederic denying you a haircut. Perhaps you would have lived a normal childhood, unburdened by it all.”

“But I could’ve helped people— _healed_ people!”

“You do not exist to benefit others, Rapunzel.” He leans closer to rest a hand on her shoulder, and adds, “Nor does magic, for that matter.”

When Rapunzel glances at him in confusion, he elaborates, “Magic is not a part of us. It exists in the world, a force like any other, but it isn’t ours to harness or take. That is—forgive the sermon, Rapunzel—” a wry, self-deprecating smile flickers over his face “—the teaching of the sun. It freely grants us light and warmth, healing and life, but if we reached into the sky and sought to grasp it in our hands, it would destroy us. It is better to accept what we are given with grace and gratitude, to content ourself with our natural capabilities, than to chase power beyond our means.”

Unbidden, the memory of Gothel’s last moment resurfaces—pale rosy flesh melting into rot and greasy bone—

(and a hundred, hundred fading liver spots; clouds of cataracts fading from mist-grey eyes; silver curls ripening into black while she sang and sang across the years)

Nausea rolls her stomach, but the memories turn and catch the light from a new angle; as a child she never questioned _why._

“Gothel used my hair’s magic to keep herself young,” she muses, half to herself. “So when Eugene cut it, she…”

There are no words to describe it; how every slaughtered year came to life and sank in its teeth like ravenous wolves denied their prey. But whatever Ludolf sees in her face must get the point across, for sympathy softens his gaze and he squeezes her shoulder hard. “The sundrop revealed itself to heal your mother of her illness. I do not think the gift of its magic was ever meant to linger long; so it filled your hair, something frail and easily shed, and no other part.” He pauses. “I’m sorry for what you must have seen when Gothel met her end. I have seen the consequences of such greed for magic many times, and it is… more horrible than I can say.”

Something uncoils in her stomach—an unseen tangle of guilt relaxing—because if her hair hurt more than it healed over the long term, then—

She blinks.

 _Did I really feel_ guilty _for losing my hair?_

…Yes. In such a quiet, insidious way she hadn’t even noticed until it dissipated. She turns that thought over, basking in the unexpected relief.

“It isn’t… bad that I lost the healing magic, then,” she murmurs, testing.

“Of course not!”

“People… my parents, you… _everyone_ — they’re not disappointed?”

Ludolf presses her shoulder again. “No. Your value lies in _you,_ Rapunzel. It always has. You— _just_ you—are enough.”

_Oh._

It is somehow like a sunrise; the new falling of light over the darkened landscape of her mind and the brightening of her thoughts. Beaming, Rapunzel throws her arms around her uncle’s shoulders—he grunts with surprise and steadies himself against the lip of the pool, but then returns her embrace with equal enthusiasm.

“ _Thank_ you,” she whispers.

“I’m glad I could help. Is that what was bothering you?”

“I- I think so.” Her grin lingers; she settles back on her haunches, shaking her hair out of her face. “I don’t… need to be the sundrop to do this, do I?”

“No.” Ludolf smooths out his robes. “You are called to be human, and to try even when you are afraid. That is all anyone can do, and all we expect from you.”

“Okay. Okay.” Rapunzel closes her eyes, cradling the sunlit feeling close to her heart. _I can do that._ “Could you talk me through the sunset valediction one more time?” she asks. “I’m suddenly feeling _very_ motivated.”

Ludolf chuckles. “Very well. In the valediction, we bid our goodbyes to the sun as the year turns into darkness, and vow to hold the light in our hearts until it returns in the spring. You will begin the ceremony with a small speech honoring the summer’s gifts; then you’ll lead us in the floating of candles, as we practiced. I and the other rectors will be there, of course, and you can look to us if you need assistance…”

## ❦

The second time Cassandra walks into her bedroom to find an envelope waiting on her pillow, her heart leaps against her ribs, and she wastes no time in locking her door and tearing the open the fragile envelope.

_Madam,_

_Information on der Sonne’s Journal is so scarce that the only entry whose existence I have been able to corroborate to my satisfaction is the love letter. The impression in the book trade has long been that the “Journal” is more properly understood as a collection of maps than a diary, but if what you’re saying is true… You tease! Have you read it? I am alight with jealousy, Miss Morgenstern. You awful thing._

_And you’re quite right, it_ _is_ _a terrible shame for all that history to remain locked away all for the sake of some dusty old tunnels. Is the security risk truly so great? Could the labyrinth not be collapsed or filled? Corona surely does not have such dedicated enemies that they would drill through miles of solid rock to sneak into the capital._

 _Though I suppose collapsing the tunnels would require a great deal of work, though, wouldn’t it? The inertia of infrastructure is an ancient enemy of good scholarship, although, I will admit, seldom in this exact manner. More often it is simply bad roads and the unwillingness of the local authorities to invest in fixing them that is the trouble. Miss Morgenstern, I cannot tell you_ _how_ _many times my efforts to acquire certain rare volumes for my private collection have been complicated by their being kept in some moldering castle halfway up a mountain miles away from any decent road._

_…But I’m afraid I am rambling! I was delighted to receive your response, and when I reached what you said about the Journal I was so profoundly overcome with excitement that I sat down to pen this letter. Please, forgive my exuberance. I am so glad you wrote back; it’s so rare for me to send or receive post for nothing but the simple pleasure of communication, rather than business or politics, and I hope you find my letters even half as enjoyable as I find yours. Thank you, also, for your excellent advice regarding Corona’s holidays. It has given me much to consider._

_As for your question—never fear sounding impertinent with me, by the way, Cassandra; I think it isn’t healthy for a ruler to be forever kowtowed and groveled to, and I appreciate your forthrightness more than I can say—I’m not very skilled at talking about myself, I’m afraid, but I shall try my best._

_I inherited the duchy from my father, Florus Morcant, after he died of apoplexy several years ago. My mother ran away with a band of traveling merchants soon after I was born, so I never knew her. I used to be quite angry about it, but nowadays I just wish her well, wherever she is. Quintonia isn’t a pleasant place for those not predisposed to it; Lavuil, in particular, is high in the mountains and it is bitterly cold for most of the year and rather damp and dismal for the rest. So I can’t really blame her for leaving. In… a way, I think the dreariness may have been what fostered my love of books in the first place. With a good library, one can go wherever one wishes, do whatever one likes, even when the snow is up to one’s shoulders outside. Perhaps in my own way, I am running away too._

_My library housed about five thousand volumes under my father’s care, but since I began collecting in earnest when I was fifteen, it has grown to eighteen thousand, which now that I am writing it down seems a truly astonishing number. In the last few years I have slowed down my acquisition considerably; I used to buy in bulk from book traders and clear out entire auctions, but lately I have, sadly, quite run out of space and it is more a hunt for rare and especially interesting volumes._

_I have quite a sizable collection of history books; if you ever have reason to visit Quintonia, I would be pleased to let you peruse it._

_I remain your curious friend,_

_Rosalia Morcant._

Cassandra groans as she tosses the letter onto her desk. Owl opens one luminous yellow eye and trills, as if to ask her what’s wrong, and she rifles a hand through her curls.

“Well that… was useless.” she mutters, pacing to the window. Dusk settles over the city, painting the lawn in bruised shades and obscuring the faces of the gardeners tending the flowerbeds below her bedroom, but the slight breeze feels good against her face.

Enthusiasm for the Journal or no, it’s a much more innocuous reply than Cassandra expected; giving nothing of Morcant’s true intentions away and prattling on with such a friendly tone that she _might_ have bought it, if she were a sillier, less suspicious person.

If, in fact, she were exactly the kind of person she pretended to be in her last letter.

Cheered by this thought, Cassandra turns away from the window with a grin. “Maybe next time, huh, Owl? She’s got to show her hand sooner or later. Let’s see…”

Owl warbles with mild interest as she prepares to write her response, but he doesn’t stick around to watch; a ruffle of feathers, an almost-silent rustle of his wings, and he soars out into the deepening night. Cassandra wishes him a good hunting absently, twirling her quill between her fingers.

_Dear Madam,_

_I have been privileged to read select parts of the Journal, yes. My father used to solicit my “help” with locking the vault in the evenings after Unification Day—in truth, I didn’t help much, and I suspect his reasons had more to do with indulging my interest in the Journal’s history than anything else!—and he always looked the other way when I snuck glances at its entries. Unfortunately, it’s been years since I was allowed into the vault—after a certain age, such indulgences become less acceptable—but those are some of my fondest childhood memories._

_What kind of books do you collect? How do you find them? The palace here has two collections, the Solveig Library and the Royal Archive. The Archive is mostly old records—censuses, tax records, that sort of thing—plus the Journal and some other sensitive documents. The Solveig is supposedly the biggest public library in the Seven Kingdoms, though I’ve heard that the Library of Celaeno in Ingvarr also makes that claim. In any case, I know the librarians here are always on the hunt for new books to add, but I can’t say I’ve ever thought about how it all works._

_Have you read all eighteen thousand of those books? It sounds like so_ _many_ _. How on earth do you find the time? I can’t imagine our King Frederic reading so much—he always seems to be busy, though I’ll admit I don’t see him that often except during his public appearances. Being a maid didn’t exactly grant me access to our monarchs, and neither does being his daughter’s lady-in-waiting. Whenever he speaks to Rapunzel, it’s like I’m not even in the room. Which isn’t much of a change from being a maid, really._

 _I’m glad you found my advice helpful. Do you plan to visit Herzingen after all? I know this is presumptuous, given our respective stations, but I would like to meet you face to face, if only to get a better idea of who I’m writing to. It feels odd, sending letters to someone whose face I can’t picture. I did go through all the galleries the other day (with Rapunzel, who_ _loves_ _them; she’s a painter herself), hoping I might find a portrait of you, but of course there wasn’t one. I suppose it was silly of me—I grew up dusting those paintings, and I know every single one of them so well I could probably name them in my sleep._

_Still, the point is, I would like to meet you. I hope you’ll come._

_With friendly regards,_

_Cassandra Morgenstern._

## ❦

The soft, sunlit warmth of her epiphany in the temple lingers just long enough to lull Rapunzel into the illusion of safety before it slips away and leaves her floundering again. Doubt creeps in; and the feeling of consequences for failure waiting like a prickle of sharp teeth against her neck; and the pit of dread hollowing out her stomach.

Firelight tinges her dreams. She visits dry gardens in her sleep; lawns burnt autumn-brown and desiccated vines clinging to the palace walls with grim persistence while she catches drifting sparks in her hands and begs the barren sky for rain. Her palms tingle with the sensation of dreadful heat whenever she wakes.

She takes to staying up later. After Cassandra bids her goodnight and after Eugene sneaks into her bedroom for a goodnight kiss and whispered plans for the next day, Rapunzel douses the lamps, closes her doors, and tip-toes onto her balcony. The warm, salty breeze cards through her view as she perches on the thick marble balustrade, soaking in the silent grandeur of the view.

Indigo darkness swaddles the sleeping city, pierced by the twinkling yellow lights of the street lanterns flaring to life one by one as the lamplighters make their steady progress down from the palace; just one at first, then a few more, then a dozen, then hundreds—like earthbound stars.

The night-black waters of the sea wink for the stars, and beyond that the mainland is a dark, sprawling behemoth broken here and there by clustered pinpricks of light where other cities nestle against the plains.

Pascal dozes beside her, and Rapunzel strokes the ridge of rough scales along his spine with her fingertips, and tries to tell herself that this beautiful view feels like home.

It doesn’t… quite work.

 _What is_ wrong _with me? Why can’t I just_ …

Someone knocks on her door: a quiet _tap… tap-tap._ Rapunzel freezes; even her heart stills for an instant before it kicks into a frantic beat that makes her head spin. When Cassandra knocks it’s a sharp _ratta-tat-tat,_ and when Eugene knocks he raps his knuckles against the doorframe for a duller, deeper sound; her maids knock quietly, but never this late.

“Rapunzel?”

Her name, soft-spoken; the Queen’s voice. Rapunzel catches her breath.

“Are you awake?”

“Y- yes?”

The door swings ajar just enough to allow Arianna to peek inside. Her gaze sweeps over the empty bed first, then the vacant floor between the bed and the glass doors to the balcony; the edge of lamplight from the corridor outside illuminates just a sliver of her face, but she does not look angry.

“May I come in, Rapunzel?”

Shivering, Rapunzel nods. Arianna steps inside, closes the door behind her, and moves to the balcony with the deliberate _carefulness_ that seems to define her every action. She smiles at Rapunzel as she folds her arms over the balustrade, but she doesn’t speak; she just gazes down at the city for a long, long moment.

“…Is… something wrong?” Rapunzel ventures at last.

“No. No, Rapunzel, nothing is wrong. I was just thinking… it’s the end of your first full month in Herzingen.” The breeze tosses her hair against her face, and she tucks it back behind her ear with a quiet sigh. “I wanted to ask how you’re feeling now, about… everything. How you’re settling in.”

“Oh.” So she isn’t in trouble; not exactly. Rapunzel slides off the balustrade, mimicking Arianna’s pose as she leans against it instead. “It’s amazing here,” she says. The safe answer. The _right_ answer. “It feels like a dream—a good dream. Everything’s still so new and so… Some- sometimes I feel like I _am_ dreaming, and…”

“…And you’re going to wake up back in that tower?” It’s so _gentle,_ and when Rapunzel nods, Arianna reaches out, covers her hand where it rests on the balustrade; not quite holding but a slight press. “Sometimes I feel the same. Like I’ll wake up and… there’ll just be an empty crib again. It’s… a lot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Arianna squeezes her hand again, and they fall into a less awkward silence. The slow progress of the lamps reaches the harbor, and the glow of firelight limns the hulls of the ships docked there.

“Is there anything I can do?” Arianna asks.

“Do…?”

“To help you feel more comfortable here.”

“O- _oh,_ I— I don’t… need…”

Fumbling, Rapunzel glances over her shoulder, into the shadows of her bedroom. After a month of choosing and rearranging furniture and filling up the empty spaces with pretty things, after filling up the blank plaster walls with painted flowers and birds and scenes of palace life, the space is beginning to feel _familiar;_ a pocket of comfort in this still-strange world. And there’s always Pascal, and Eugene, and Cassandra.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m— Cassandra’s been teaching me how to ride and that’s been- that’s… nice.”

 _An escape._ Her voice peters out, and she looks back to Arianna with an apology already welling on her tongue, but the Queen just smiles again. “You know,” she murmurs, “you remind me _a lot_ of my sister, Willow.”

“You have a sister?”

“Oh, yes.” Arianna chuckles, shaking her head at the starry sky. “My little sister Wilhelmina. She and I were quite the terrors when we were children. I was headstrong and adventurous, and Willow has always been a… free spirit. We used to egg each other on and get into all kinds of trouble; when we got older we traveled all over the continent together. Eventually we passed through Corona, and I met your father… fell in love with him and this kingdom. I decided to stay here, but Willow kept up her travels. I don’t think she’d ever really be happy staying grounded in one place for too long.” She sighs fondly. “She writes me letters every few months, always filled with wild tales of all the exciting things she’s done, and about once a year she visits Corona and we spend some time in the country together.”

“She sounds wonderful.”

“We don’t _always_ get along,” Arianna admits, rueful. “I’ve always been the more… serious of the two of us, and sometimes that carefree spirit can be, ah, a little grating. But she’s so _enthusiastic_ , and she can always find the beauty in things most people take for granted. That’s something I’ve always loved about her, and it’s something I see in you, too.”

“…Really?”

“Really. I see you trying so _hard_ to make the best of this difficult situation, Rapunzel. I see a girl who- who grew up in a way that could harden anyone to the goodness in the world, but you still— you haven’t given up.” Starlight glimmers in her eyes when she smiles. “It takes so much courage to _live,_ instead of just surviving. I’m so proud of you for living.”

Rapunzel opens her mouth.

She closes it again.

This is… another new… _thing._ Her— _Gothel_ never said anything like this to her; it was always sly little digs that sounded alright but wormed their way into her head and stung, until she learned that Mother really wasn’t that… interested in her life. Her thoughts. _Her._

_Arianna isn’t Gothel. Why do you keep expecting her to be?_

Guilt snakes through her gut. “I- I think everything has… You just have to look on the bright side of things,” she says weakly.

“Willow came to stay with me for six months after- after you were… taken.” Arianna squeezes her hand again, staring across the glittering sprawl of the city, her eyes distant. “We didn’t talk much. I wasn’t… in any state to talk, so Willow… we’d sit together. Sometimes she told me stories about where she’d been, just to fill the silence, but… mostly she made things. Paintings, pottery, a quilt. Just… nice, colorful, pretty things. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t been there, helping me remember that there could still be beauty and kindness in the world.” Her voice quavers. “She pulled me out of a very, _very_ dark place.” Blinking, she shakes herself out of the memory, her grip on Rapunzel’s hand tightening. “To be able to see the light even when the night is darkest is a precious gift, Rapunzel. Don’t _ever_ let anyone tell you otherwise.”

And for the first time since the first day, Rapunzel doesn’t think about it; she steps closer and goes for a hug, and Arianna returns it with a sudden, desperate clutch.

She’s not sure how long it lasts; she tucks her head against Arianna’s shoulder, closing her eyes, and soaks it in. It feels—nice.

“I’m so glad I found you,” she whispers, muffled.

“Me, too, Rapunzel. Not a day went by that I didn’t miss you.”

“I watched the lanterns.” She’s heard the Coronan side of it by now, many times; floating lights for her birthday, a beacon to guide her home. And they _had_. “Every year I can remember. Part of me always knew they meant something.”

Arianna’s arms tighten around her. That’s all. Just—a hug, warm and safe and relaxing and it makes something _click,_ finally. This woman is not Gothel—is not _anything_ like Gothel—this is her _Mom_ and she has a real- a real _family,_ who look at her and see _Rapunzel_ instead of magical golden hair or a child to be protected. Who care about how she feels and what she thinks, who _see_ her, who—

Sniffling, Rapunzel says, “Will I get to meet her?”

“Willow?” Arianna— _Mom_ —strokes the back of her head, her touch light and soft as a breath. “Of course. I know she’ll rush home as soon as she gets my letter—but she’s traveling in Yultadore presently, so I expect her to arrive a few weeks after your coronation, at the earliest. It’s quite far from here.”

“Th- that’s fine. I want to meet—” She leans away, wiping at her eyes as a nervous laugh trips up her throat. “S- sorry, I’m— do you have… other siblings? Or- I mean, I’ve met Dad’s brothers, but—”

The tears glistening on Mom’s cheeks make her feel better about her own, and she grins sheepishly. “Well, _my_ brother, Abraham, is the Duke of Carvajal in Eldora,” Mom replies. “He plans to attend your coronation, so you’ll meet him then. Then there’s my cousin, Elena, and her family…”

Rapunzel settles against the balustrade again, listening, rapt, while Mom slips into tales of her youth in Carvajal. This is not a sunrise; it’s a spark that nestles in her heart and grows stronger and brighter until it feels like a roaring hearth-fire, warming her from within.

She has a family. She _belongs._

## ❦

“Commander.”

“Your Highness.” Peter straightens up as Gilbert steps into his office, schooling his face into respectful neutrality as the Prince pulls the door shut behind him. “What can I do for you?”

“I wish to discuss whatever… progress you’ve made on the murder of Charles Patton,” Gilbert says. He glances at the papers laid out over Peter’s desk and lifts his eyebrows pointedly. “I assume, even with all the recent… furor, you’re still giving the investigation the attention it deserves.”

“…Of course, Sir,” Peter says. It’s a struggle not to sound like a belligerent schoolboy, but he manages. “In fact I was just reviewing the case. Please.”

At his gesture, Gilbert nods and circles the desk to peer over his shoulder at the mess. Sketches of the crime scene—the body—the crumbling henge and dead tree, all done in Lieutenant Falke’s careful hand; the pages of the coroner’s report arranged haphazardly, intermingled with Reis’s notes on historical burial customs and scattered reports from their informants in the southern provinces.

“Un…fortunately the investigation is progressing… slowly,” Peter admits. “Based on the mutilations of Officer Patton and Captain Reis’s research into traditional Saporian death rites, we have narrowed the field of our search to the region surrounding the Nathair Delta.” He taps the map spread out over the corner of his desk, circling his finger around the central stretch of the Coronan coast. “Artois is the closest Saporian-majority city to Janus Point, and we know that the surrounding farmlands have a… particular history of Separatist violence.”

“You’re referring to the Socona poisonings.”

Peter winces. “Yes, Sir. That area has been… quiet in the years since then, and we no longer have informants based there. Our agents in Artois are doing what they can to correct that oversight, but it will take some time.”

“I see.”

Gilbert leans over the desk, his eyes narrowed in thought as he examines the grotesque sketch of Patton’s body. His mouth presses into a thin line. “And you are confident in your ability to catch this murderer before he strikes again?”

His tone leaves no doubt of his skepticism, and Peter swallows an answering snap. He straightens his spine instead, clasping his hands before himself. “We caught the Socona poisoners, Sir; we’ll catch this man, too.”

“Soon, I hope,” Gilbert says, with blades in his voice. “I would hate to see my niece coronated with a Separatist butcher still at large.”

_Six weeks._

Peter meets his eye, swallowing hard, as Gilbert steps away from the desk. The message is unspoken but clear: Solve the case and catch the killerbefore the coronation, or the Prince will push again for harsher measures. And, given Frederic’s paranoid mood lately, this time, Gilbert might just succeed.

“As would I,” Peter replies quietly. “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that the Princess’s coronation is safe.”

“Glad to hear it. As you were, Commander.”

Gilbert leaves, trailing a flat, wintry smile behind him, and Peter shuts his eyes. He has _enough_ on his plate without the provocations of a Prince hankering after war.

But there’s nothing to be done but the work in front of him, and so, sighing heavily, Peter leans over the desk to re-arrange the files again with the faint hope of finding some order that will make the pieces fall into place.

 _What,_ he thinks, staring at the twisted limbs of the yew in Falke’s sketch, _are you hiding?_


	8. Chapter 7: From Dawn to Dusk

###  **Chapter 7: From Dawn to Dusk**

As the weeks before the Festival of Lights dwindle down to days, and then to hours, Cassandra finds to her surprise that she’s _enjoying_ herself. Preparations for the festival and coronation keep Rapunzel busy enough to spare Cassandra of Fitzherbert’s company for days at a time; the suffocating late-summer heat breaks in the first week of Mīthománē and gives way to a pleasant, dry chill.

And her correspondence with Rosalia Morcant begins to bear fruit at last.

Two more letters come, spaced a couple weeks apart and slipped into her room by an unseen courier while she’s away; both as prattling and inane as the ones before. But Cassandra’s getting better at reading between the lines.

It’s a careful dance—of innocent asides and sly double meanings—of little hints about the lengths Morcant has gone to acquire rare volumes in the past, and a faint patina of disgruntlement brushed over Cassandra’s responses—of idle remarks about the labyrinth, and an amusing anecdote about her own youthful exploration of the tunnels. Morcant hasn’t written one word that could implicate her in a court of law, but she’s said enough for Cassandra to be _sure._

The Duchess wants her help stealing the Journal.

She expects the next letter any day now, and if she’s lucky—if she’s made herself sound trustworthy and stupid enough—this will be the one where Morcant shows her hand and _says it._

Then Cassandra can take the letter straight to her father and explain the whole thing. He’ll be impressed by her show of initiative, realize what a mistake he made when he denied her a chance in the King’s Watch, and make the necessary arrangements to safeguard the Journal against Morcant when Unification Day arrives.

The spike of nerves that impales her stomach at the welcoming ceremony when Nigel announces _Isacco Guilfoil, First Chancellor of Quintonia_ has nothing—nothing whatsoever—to do with worry for Rapunzel. Cassandra holds her breath, watching from Rapunzel’s side while the chancellor pays his respects to King Frederic and Queen Arianna.

He looks like a clerk. His dark hair is slicked back from his forehead, and a pair of tinted spectacles perch on the bridge of his long, pointed nose; his suit is finely-tailored but drab. A slight accent curls around the edges of his Coronan.

When he steps past the King and Queen to greet Rapunzel, his gaze flicks to Cassandra and the corners of his mouth crook up into a tiny, knowing smile.

It’s gone again in less than a blink—so fast she almost doubts she saw it at all—but it sets her heart pounding all the same. Cassandra lets out her breath, fighting to keep her face calm while Guilfoil bows to Rapunzel and laughs at some comment she can’t hear past the rushing in her ears—

Then it’s over, and Guilfoil moves along without another glance in her direction. Cassandra clasps her hands together against the urge to fidget.

If there isn’t a letter waiting for her tonight, she’ll- she’ll eat her stupid veil.

It’s going to be a _long_ day.

## ❦

“—Of course, the negotiations between Azoth and the Vakrettan Confederacy are expected to break down. Again.” Margarethe von Hasslach examines her blunt nails, simpering. “Do you think it will come to war, Your Highness?”

The Blavenian ambassador peers at her with keen, hawkish interest, and Rapunzel forces a weak smile. Three months of lessons have taught her a great deal about Corona and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but little else; she could find Azoth and Vakretta on a map, but that’s the extent of what she knows. “I… certainly hope not, Madam.”

Margarethe chuckles. “Hope counts for nothing in politics, but a pretty thought!”

“It won’t,” interjects a new voice—a heavyset man, Rapunzel sees when she turns, approaching with arm-in-arm with Mom. His spring-green eyes sparkle with mirth. “Really, Margarethe,” he adds with a chortle. “Azoth cannot afford a war, and who would bother to invade it?”

“Your Grace,” Margarethe mutters, stiffening. “Your Majesty.”

“Madam von Hasslach. Always a pleasure,” Mom replies, through a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, though it warms as she turns away from the ambassador. “Rapunzel, dear, this is Abraham—my brother.”

“Duke of Carvajal and all that rot,” Abraham adds with a wink. His accent is soft, rolling; less thick than the guttural weight of Margarethe’s. “Wonderful to meet you at last.”

“Mom’s told me so much about you!” Relief buoys her enthusiasm as she clasps the hand Abraham offers and dips into a polite, shallow curtsy. Margarethe looks downright _sour._

“Oho, has she! Filling your head with tales of my wayward youth, eh?”

“Your wayward youth holed up in the library?” Mom retorts dryly.

“When you and Wilhelmina weren’t dragging me into your harebrained schemes,” Abraham says, in a tone so lofty Rapunzel has to smother a giggle. He smooths out his auburn mustache, a fond smile twitching in the corners of his mouth. “Anyway; Arianna’s right, I’m afraid. I was always the boring sibling. But! I hope, dear niece, that I won’t bore _you._ ”

Rapunzel grins. “I don’t believe in boredom.”

“A wise philosophy, if you ask me.” He beams at her, then turns to Margarethe and says loudly, “Now, Madam, while I have you here—I’ve a bit of a bone to pick with you about this Beringar matter—”

Margarethe smiles an envenomed smile. “I am at your disposal, Sir.”

For a moment, Rapunzel listens in polite incomprehension while they get into it; then Mom touches her elbow and guides her gently away. “You looked a little in need of rescue,” she says in an undertone.

“Thank you,” Rapunzel sighs. “She’s… a little intimidating, isn’t she?”

“Mm.” Mom steers her around a knot of diplomats with no more than a few polite nods and murmured greetings, though Rapunzel can _feel_ them all looking at her—itching for a chance to snare her into conversation, scent out her weak points, take advantage of her _ignorance_.

Now that the Festival’s _here,_ her three months of frantic preparation feel pointless. She fumbled her way through the welcoming ceremony earlier this morning, she’s floundering in the reception, and she feels every half-hidden smirk, every curled lip, every snide glance, every judgmental chuckle like a live coal against her skin.

Having Cass to drift along in her wake, silent but dependable—brushing her knuckles against Rapunzel’s side to warn her when she’s about to say something unwise, as they agreed before the Festival began, and leaning close now and then to whisper names or tidbits of vital information in her ear—helps a little. Mom swooping in to save her helps more.

But…

“Sunshine! There you are!”

Eugene strolls out of the crowd, beaming, and Mom slips away with a knowing smile. Rapunzel forces herself to relax as Eugene slots himself into the vacated space at her side. “What a party, huh?”

“It’s sure—a lot.”

“And I—am— _loving_ it. Hors d'oeuvre?”

He holds out a tiny plate stacked high with tiny canapés, and Rapunzel takes one to show willing more than anything else; she’s too on edge to feel hungry. “Thanks.”

“I’m glad _one_ of us is enjoying himself,” Cass mutters behind her.

Eugene rolls his eyes. “What’s that, Cass _an_ dra? _You_ don’t like parties? Well, who could have anticipated that? I’m shocked. _Shocked._ How about you, Sunshine?” He nudges her with his elbow, grinning.

Shrugging, Rapunzel makes a noncommittal noise and nibbles at the canapé. “There’ll be dancing later,” she says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Mmm, nothing like a nice dance to round out the day,” Eugene agrees. “Say, and then tonight, there’s nothing on your—” he tosses a wry glance past her to bounce his eyebrows at Cass “—oh-so-sacrosanct schedule after sundown, is there?”

“Raps really should get an early night—”

“Yeah, but there’s early, and then there’s _early,_ ” Eugene says. “What do you say we take a rowboat out tonight, Sunshine? Just you and me.”

“Well—”

Rapunzel doesn’t get any further than that before Nigel all but materializes at her other side to announce that it’s almost time for her father’s speech and why isn’t she already at his side?, and she can do nothing but throw Eugene a regretful smile over her shoulder as Nigel draws her away.

## ❦

Varian can count the number of times he’s been to Herzingen on one hand. Dad makes the trip once every few years, but the last time he brought Varian with him, Mom had still been alive.

So, when Dad announced a few days ago that they were both going to Herzingen for the Festival of Lights, he was taken aback. “What’s wrong with our celebrations here?”

Dad shrugged and replied, “There’s the coronation this year. Be good to see some history up close, right, son?”

It hadn’t been until a few hours later, while he helped Dad pack provisions into Prometheus’s saddlebags, that he caught Dad staring at what’s left of the burn on his face—a faded, pinkish scar bubbling along his jaw—and the truth hit him.

They didn’t come to Herzingen because of the coronation; they came because Dad wanted an excuse to drag him away from the black rocks for a week. The realization bubbled in his stomach the whole way to Herzingen, festering into a resentment that fractures when they reach the city.

He forgot how— how _huge_ it is.

Varian goes with Dad when he visits the market in Anbruch, and Anbruch’s a big place; the old fort looms over the sprawling city, and there’s always a noisy bustle in the streets that puts the sleepy village market in Herrfeld to shame.

But compared to Herzingen, Anbruch is just another tiny village.

The harbor is a forest of masts and rolled sails and mazes of wooden docks packed with goods; laborers hustle along the floating walkways, heaving crates to and fro with a brisk efficiency that puts Varian in mind of ants. Shops and houses rise up the flanks of the island, parting around white-washed cobblestone streets _packed_ with people—crowds and crowds of people all pressed together in the claustrophobic density of the city—most bedecked in harvest colors, warm browns and bright yellows and oranges, some wearing crowns of autumn flowers or sprigs of barley, all of them _chattering_.

Purple flags bearing the Coronan crest criss-cross the streets, hung on soft golden ropes strung between the buildings; merchants wander through the crowd with wooden trays, hawking goods—flowers, tiny Coronan flags, amateur portraits of the princess, candied apples, meat pies and warm cider and fresh-baked bread.

Above it all, the palace rises; its graceful towers capped in elegant blue domes, its windows shimmering gold in the reflected light of the afternoon sun.

Varian clings to Dad’s vest to keep from being separated in the jostling crowd, drinking in the sight of it all. In Herrfeld, they just light candles for the Festival and have a potluck in the chapel—he never imagined that a celebration could look like _this._

“Dad, have you ever— It’s so!— Look at that _carriage!_ ”

It’s a gilded white affair with golden wheels, pulled by a pair of gleaming chestnut stallions with bells on their harnesses; their hooves strike the cobbles with a percussive precision that Varian can feel in his _bones._

Dad sighs. “Lots of noble folk in the city to pay their respects,” he says. His tone falls somewhere between boredom and exasperation. “Don’t point, son; it’s not polite.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

They follow the flow of the crowd to the temple for the afternoon convocation, which turns out to be more of a feast than a sermon—people crowd into the vast, warm hall with dishes and trays and platters that the priests lay out on long, groaning tables, and the temple rings with laughter and scattered song and the chatter of well-fed, happy people as they share in the fruits of the harvest—and Varian finds to his surprise that he’s _enjoying_ himself.

He hums along with the hymns he knows and soaks in the melodies of the ones he doesn’t, nibbling on pastries and roasted pumpkin seeds, craning his neck to see the Lost Princess herself on the raised dais where the royal family sits.

She’s just a tiny figure in pink and gold from his vantage point, but still. She’s the _Princess._

“Hey, Dad?”

“Hm?”

“I think Herrfeld needs to step up its Festival game next year,” Varian says blandly.

Dad chuckles, and leans over to ruffle his hair. “We’ll see what we can do, son.”

## ❦

“Sneaking out?”

Rapunzel nearly jumps out of her skin when Cassandra’s voice emerges from the shadows, and Cass, snickering, steps out from behind a pillar where she had, apparently, been lurking. The moonlight falling through the windows illuminates her knowing smirk, and Rapunzel shuffles, embarrassed.

“Well… I…”

“Don’t worry about it, Raps,” Cass says, clapping her on the shoulder. “But… if you go this way, you’ll run into the patrol in the entrance hall, and all the guards are under strict orders not to let you out of the palace without due supervision.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Your dad’s not taking any chances with your safety _this_ close to the coronation.”

Groaning, Rapunzel runs her fingers through her hair. It’s a little longer now, almost to her shoulders, and that’s sort of comforting—how it slips through her fingers instead of falling away just past her scalp—but then it swings against her neck and makes her skin _itch._ She takes a deep breath. “I’m supposed to meet Eugene by the docks. I- I _need_ to get out of the palace for a while, Cass, and I… I’ve been neglecting him lately with all the coronation stuff and—”

“Hey, hey, I’m on your side,” Cass says. She puts her hand between Rapunzel’s shoulders and gently guides her in the opposite direction, back up the corridor. “ _I_ needed a break from your schedule and all this festive nonsense, too. That’s where I was headed before I saw you, so. Come on; I’ll show you how an _expert_ sneaks out of the castle.”

Rapunzel blinks. Several times.

Cassandra’s always sort of… grumpily tolerated her eagerness to get outside and spend quality time with Eugene, and Rapunzel got the vague impression that Cass would prefer a tamer, more docile princess to follow around. Someone who just did as she was told all the time. The idea of Cass _helping_ her sneak out is a lot to take in.

“Okay?” she says, bemused.

Grinning, Cass presses her finger to her lips and beckons for her to follow.

They don’t pass any guards, or indeed anyone at all; and their journey down through the palace and into the undercroft is… _fun,_ even though neither of them speaks. Cass pulls her into a small area of the undercroft that has been sectioned off for storage, winks at her, and then crouches down in the middle of the floor.

While Rapunzel looks on in befuddled excitement, Cass works her fingers into a thin gap between the flagstones and pulls _up_ with a grunt of effort.

The stone lifts away, and Rapunzel gasps. “Is that a _secret passage?!_ ”

“Shhh! It won’t be if you announce it to the whole palace, Raps.”

“Right! Right, sorry. _Wow,_ Cass, this is so _cool!_ ”

There’s a short wooden ladder into darkness, and then smooth, cool stone underfoot. Cass follows her down and pulls the trapdoor closed behind her, plunging them into total darkness.

Her heart thumps as she listens to Cass moving around in the dark; then there’s a quiet _squeak_ and the sound of a striking match. Light blossoms into the tunnel as Cass lights a small iron lantern, and they grin at each other in the soft orangey glow.

“This way,” Cass whispers, reaching for her hand.

The tunnel is mostly empty—just dust and cobwebs and the occasional rat scurrying away from the light. As they walk, Cass explains, “King Herz der Sonne built this labyrinth during the War of Unification with Saporia. The tunnels extend for miles—some as far southeast as Anbruch. He used them to move his troops and supplies all over in secret.”

“How do you know about them?”

She’s heard of the labyrinth, of course, but Master Vernors gave her the impression that most of the tunnels had collapsed long ago, and that those remaining were too dangerous to be explored. But these look safe enough, and Cass strides along with the steady confidence of a woman who knows _exactly_ where she’s going.

“Perks of being the Commander’s daughter,” Cass says in a sing-song. “He let me… sneak a few peeks at the Journal of Herz der Sonne when I was a kid. I found a few entrances in the palace based on the maps, and I’ve been sneaking down here to explore since I was nine.”

“What about the traps? Master Vernors said—”

“Yeah, those.” Cass stops at an intersection of two tunnels, angling the lantern so its light shines against the corner wall. “Look—there.” Rapunzel leans closer, squinting. There’s a tiny series of symbols scratched into the stones, so small and inconspicuous she never would have noticed them if Cass hadn’t pointed them out. “Der Sonne left these marks to serve as a guide through the labyrinth. Every trap’s marked—you just have to know where to look, and how to read the marks.”

“And you can?”

“I… figured out most of it through, um, trial and error.” Cass rubs the back of her neck, smiling a little ruefully. “There’s no traps in this stretch of the tunnels, not anymore. I… let’s say forcefully disarmed them.”

“You triggered them, didn’t you.”

“Alright, yeah—” Cass snorts. “I triggered every trap within half a mile of the palace and almost got myself killed about twenty times before I figured out how to read the marks. So these tunnels are safe. Always a silver lining, huh?”

Giggling, Rapunzel replies, “Thank you for your service to the kingdom, Cass. You should have a medal.”

“Eh, maybe someday. Come on, Raps.”

She’s quiet as she hurries them to the right, leading swiftly through the labyrinth. A few more turns and a long, winding stretch of tunnel brings them to a small metal grate, through which Rapunzel can see what looks like the stone square in front of the bridge to the mainland.

Cass sets the lantern down, sets her shoulder against the grate, and pushes against it. With a soft _click,_ it swings outward, leaving just enough space for them to crawl through. “You go… have fun with Eugene,” Cass whispers as she replaces the grate. “I’m going to take a walk, and I’ll swing around to the docks in a bit so we can sneak back in the way we came. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Rapunzel says. She rocks forward, grabbing Cass in a tight, impulsive hug; Cass makes a surprised creaking noise and pats her shoulder gingerly. “Thank you, Cass. I needed this so much.”

“I know, Raps. See you in about an hour, alright?”

Beaming, Rapunzel breaks away from her and trots toward the bridge. The night air feels cool and dry; a slight breeze rolls off the sea, ruffling her hair as she dodges around the guard post and down to the wharf. Eugene’s already there, waiting for her in a small rowboat tethered to the end of a dock, and Rapunzel sighs happily as she races to meet him.

“Hey, Sunshine!” He catches her hand to help her down. “Made it out of the palace without Cass _an_ dra inviting herself along to be the world’s most self-important spoilsport, I see.”

Her lips twitch as she pushes her hair behind her ears. “Cass _did_ catch me, actually—and she helped me sneak out.”

“…Sneak… out?”

“Yeah.” Rapunzel settles against the side of the boat, trailing her fingers in the still, dark water. “Apparently I’m… not supposed to leave the palace alone because of all the extra coronation security. Cass showed me how to get out without any guards noticing.” She nudges his boot with her toes. “She’s a good friend, Eugene.”

“I… huh. Well. I guess this is the part where you say ‘I told you so,’ huh?”

“Something like that.” She squeezes his hand. The quiet sounds of water lapping against the boat soothes, and a peaceful smile settles onto her face. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it really is.”

Comfortable silence blankets them for a few seconds, until she turns to say something about the stars and catches Eugene gazing fondly at her. Her cheeks heat up. “I- um, Eugene?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you…”

Before she left her room tonight, she picked up her tiara. The metal felt like ice in her hands, and when she lifted it to her head and settled it over her hair, she’d stared at herself in her vanity, trying to make it _fit_ like it had when she first tried it on in a fit of whimsy, back in the tower.

It was like looking at a stranger.

“Do you think I can really do this?” she asks.

“This…? All the festival stuff? Of course, Rapunzel.”

“Not just—” She catches a sigh in her teeth. “Cass said it was going to be hard, and it is? But not in the way I thought it would be.”

It’s not the memorization or the frantic pace of her schedule that’s getting to her. She made it through today in one piece.

The problem is the- the _weight._ It’s the little smirks and sneers and condescending glances and the sinking feeling of being sized up and found wanting; not by her family and friends, but by everyone _else._ The delicate tiara felt like a vice tightening around her skull.

_They’ll eat you up alive._

“…Hey, Rapunzel…”

His fingers brush her cheek, and she tilts her head to look at him; at the stars in his eyes, the soft fall of his hair against his forehead, the tender smile on his lips.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks quietly.

“…What?”

“Everybody feels like you’re feeling now,” he murmurs. “At some time or another. _Everybody,_ Rapunzel. I think it’s just part of being human. When we take on… new challenges, it’s normal to feel like we won’t ever catch up.” His hand slips up her cheek, his fingers threading through her hair, as his eyes crinkle at the corners and he just _looks_ at her with such quiet intensity that for a moment Rapunzel can’t breathe. “But you’re the strongest, smartest person I know. That fear is just a fear. It’s not real, Sunshine.” He leans forward, closing the last bit of distance between them, and kisses her forehead. “You’ve got this, sweetheart.”

She can tell he means every word. It’s that, more than anything, that makes the tight bands of anxiety that gripped her chest all day loosen at last. And for a moment, they sit in silence, foreheads pressed together, breathing while their rowboat rocks with the gentle waves.

“Thank you, Eugene,” she murmurs, and lifts her head up to kiss him.

They don’t say much after that.

## ❦

Cassandra watches until Rapunzel joins Eugene, then sighs, shaking her head, and strides in the other direction. If anyone found out she snuck the princess out against the King’s express orders—

_Stupid._

Endangering her own livelihood just to make Rapunzel _smile._ Whatever charismatic knack the princess has for making people like her, Cass needs to just… get better at resisting it before she gets herself into real trouble. Sticking to daylight outings wouldn’t make the Princess _that_ unhappy.

_Ugh._

Scowling, she skulks along the waterfront until she finds a bench bathed in the glow of a streetlamp. She drops heavily onto it, rubs a hand over her face, and then digs the letter out of her satchel.

Isacco Guilfoil hadn’t bothered sneaking it into the room. He just brushed past her during the crowded chaos of the afternoon convocation and pressed the envelope into her hand without so much as a glance, leaving her to cram it up her sleeve and hope nobody noticed. The thought that someone might have _seen_ left her too jittery to read the letter in her room, and it takes several deep lungfuls of fresh, cool air before she works up the nerve to break the now-familiar seal.

 _Dear Cassandra_ —trepidatious anticipation bubbles in her stomach as she notes the more familiar salutation—

_I could write all day of my collection; frankly, the variety of subjects my library contains are too numerous to bother listing them here. Suffice it to say there is almost nothing that doesn’t interest me at least a little, and I collect volumes on everything from medicine and mathematics to philosophy and religious texts to—perhaps the most esoteric of all—a small number of spellbooks._

_(That last, I believe, is responsible for the persistent but wholly untrue rumor that I am a witch. What need does a woman have for spellbooks but to cast spells?, the thinking goes. The truth of the matter is that spellbooks are most often a trove of detailed, first-hand historical information. They are more diary than cookbook, Cassandra; I have yet to find one not brimming with fascinating marginalia about what its writer bought at the market or the state of the garden or how so-and-so came to solicit help for an ailing sheep and so on, so forth. The spells recorded in their pages are, to my mind, a little superfluous.)_

_As you guessed, however, my greatest interest at present is in epistolary. Like spellbooks, these are relics not just of the past but of individual people, who lived through events I can only read of in history books, and such perspectives captured my fascination from the moment I read my first historical letter. I would say it was… oh, about three years ago. Since then I am forever on the hunt for old diaries, captain’s logs, and so forth. I’ve been fortunate enough recently to acquire a set of ancient receipts written in an old Abralian script upon small clay tablets; they are estimated to be several tens of thousands of years old, and while they contain nothing of particular importance—the fragments I have been able to translate concern the purchase of several pounds of rice—I cherish them all the same._

_Can you imagine that, Cassandra? To leave a footprint of your own life—such a mundane thing as your groceries for the week!—that lasts for tens of thousands of years? I think that is a richer immortality than the kind the alchemists chase, with their dreams of a philosopher’s stone and its elixir of life; or at least, a much more human kind._

_I do not think I would enjoy living forever, but the notion of leaving a mark on the world that outlasts me by millennia—of scholars centuries from now reading my thoughts, my personal reflections, my internal struggles! …_ _That_ _holds an allure so deep I can scarce put it to words._

_Do we not all dream of mattering to something greater than ourselves?_

_There is… one more thing I am almost hesitant to put to paper, Cassandra, but with Tárosh fast approaching I have decided to trust you—_ (Cassandra feels her heart leap)— _and confess that I have_ _no_ _interest in making a diplomatic visit of my trip to Herzingen._

_Long formal dinners and royal ceremonies bore me to tears, and I dread the prospect of attending celebratory events in any official capacity. (Thus my sending Isacco to observe your Rapunzel’s coronation in my stead. He has a liking for crowds that makes him better suited to such appearances.)_

_Thus when I do travel, I often make a habit of traveling under the alias of Ornella Lynch, which is the name of my personal librarian. It makes appearing at auctions and patronizing bookshops around the continent much simpler than doing so as Her Grace the Duchess of et cetera et cetera, as I’m sure you can imagine. So… My intention is to visit Herzingen in this manner, staying at a local inn rather than at the embassy and so forth. Since you have made it repeatedly clear that my elevated station as a duchess will get me no closer to the Journal than any commoner could, I see no disadvantage to this approach._

_Of course, you may certainly choose to reveal my intentions to your father and your king, and then my little game would be up; but I beg you not to. I give you my word that there is nothing more to this plan of mine than an intense dislike of crowds and my strong preference for anonymous travel. I’ve no intention whatsoever of causing trouble. I intend to stay at an inn, browse Herzingen’s bookshops, attend the public viewing of the Journal, and perhaps visit the Solveig if I am feeling especially extravagant._

_If you find it in your heart to allow me my charade and my privacy, I would be grateful beyond words. Moreover, Ornella Lynch may spend far more time in the company of another common woman than could Rosalia Morcant; so a personal meeting between us could, I believe, be more easily arranged. I would very much like to meet you, as we have discussed._

_Will you grant me this indulgence, Cassandra? As a friend?_

_I remain yours,_

_Rosalia Morcant._

Cassandra sighs as she folds the letter up. It’s not an outright confession, but—there it is. _Check and mate, Rosalia Morcant._

_I got you._

It’s almost a disappointment, in the end, that the Duchess’s final play would turn out so… _obvious._ Coming to Herzingen under a false name? Lulling Cass into a false sense of security by appealing to her friendship and a nonexistent desire for—

Well, alright, not a _nonexistent_ desire for greatness, but one Morcant has badly overestimated. She wants to be a _guard,_ which is about the least glamorous job she can imagine: a lot of hard work, paperwork, and occasional danger, in exchange for good pay and maybe, if something big falls into her lap, a quiet ceremony and a medal in recognition of exceptional service to the crown.

No, what Cassandra really craves is _trust._

Rolling her eyes, she blows a loose curl out of her face, tucks Morcant’s letterback into its envelope, and digs out the quill and paper she brought along on the chance that this letter didn’t present her with undeniable proof.

She dusts off the bench, readies her quill, and pauses to consider her response. It’s tempting to stay short and to the point; if Morcant won’t spell out what she wants in a letter, then Cassandra will just have to ferret it out of her once she gets here, and there doesn’t seem much point in continuing the facade of mingled enthusiasm and blithering idiocy she’s kept up for the past few months.

On the other hand, the last thing she wants is to scare Morcant off.

 _Gushing it is,_ Cass thinks wryly.

_Dear Madam,_

_It delights me to hear that you think of me as a friend! I understand your reasons for wanting to visit Herzingen incognito entirely, and you can rest assured that no one will find out about it from me. Personally, I don’t blame you for wanting to avoid all the pomp of a diplomatic visit—I’ve spent more time than I care to admit cleaning up after such events, and sometimes helping the kitchen staff serve up banquets and the like, and more than once I’ve seen ambassadors and foreign noblemen struggling not to nod off into their puddings. It seems frightfully boring. Anyway, I think you’ll have a much better time traveling under an alias._

_Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to spend the whole day in your company. As King Frederic doesn’t entirely trust Rapunzel’s sweetheart to… behave himself appropriately where romance is concerned, it’s likely that I’ll be spending a considerable portion of the day chaperoning. Wish me luck?_

_That said, I can make arrangements to ensure that I’m free in the evening on that day, so perhaps we could meet after your viewing of the Journal? The Archive closes at four o’clock, and I could show you around the less… rambunctious areas of the city then._

_As for your other question… I can’t say I’ve ever thought much about the mark I’ll leave on history. I suppose that, until Rapunzel returned and I became her lady-in-waiting, I never anticipated being part of any event worthy of historical record. But I suppose my position now gives me a measure of importance? Perhaps I’ll take your advice, and begin keeping a journal._

_With friendly regards,_

_Cassandra Morgenstern._

Perfect.

She blows on the ink to dry it out before folding the letter and carefully tucking it into her satchel. She’ll pass it on to Guilfoil tomorrow, hope for a confession in the next letter, and if she doesn’t get one…

Well, she’ll just have to meet Morcant with a dagger in her boot and a pair of shackles in her satchel. Either way, she’ll make her father proud.

She fills her lungs with the smell of the sea, savoring the taste of victory. She’s on the point of going to interrupt whatever nonsense Rapunzel and Fitzherbert are getting up to when she hears a strange sound a short ways up the street, out of the shadows between two houses.

It’s a quiet scuffling noise, like feet against the cobbles, but that isn’t too unusual; it’s about the right hour for Herzingen’s less upstanding citizens to be making their wobbly way home after last orders. And it really isn’t her business, and she does need to get back to Rapunzel—

But there’s something else, too, a wet… snuffling, interspersed with whimpers. Cassandra squints into the gloom beyond her pool of lamplight, gripping the strap of her satchel. “Who’s there?”

Neither sound stops, and after a few tense seconds, a small, scrawny figure shuffles out of the darkness. A pale, narrow face—a messy pile of black hair—slender shoulders becoming thin arms that end in clawed hands that grope fretfully through the air as the—kid?—stumbles down the street.

“…Hello…? Kid? Are you—”

The boy comes close enough for her to see the shine of tears on his freckled cheeks, and that’s when she sees his eyes: wide, unfocused, and hazy.

He’s sleepwalking.

Cassandra relaxes, striding forward to intercept him. He wobbles in her grip, but yields to the gentle pressure of her hands as she guides him to the bench. A fluttering string of nonsense syllables falls out of his mouth.

Once she’s got him sitting down, she steps away, and brings her hands together in the loudest _clap_ she can muster. The boy flinches away from the sound with a garbled cry. Then, blinking hard, he gapes around at the dark waterfront, color draining from his already pale face.

“Hey,” she says. His gaze snaps onto her, full of a terror bordering on panic; she lifts her hands, trying to demonstrate that she isn’t a threat. “It’s okay, kid. You were sleepwalking.”

“Wh- where—?” He licks his lips, his breath wheezing in and out his chest, shivering as a breeze rolls off the sea. He’s wearing nothing but a threadbare linen nightshirt, and it has to be uncomfortable in the crisp autumn chill. “Where… am I?” he mumbles.

“Near the bridge,” Cassandra tells him.

“A- and you…?”

“I’m Cassandra. …Cass. Morgenstern; I’m… the princess’s lady-in-waiting.” This makes him blink and sit up straighter, looking impressed, and she plops down on the bench next to him and, wryly, adds, “That’s less glamorous than it sounds. What’s your name?”

“Varian,” he mutters. Some of the jagged tension dissolves from his shoulders, and he pushes his hand through his mop of black hair with a groan. “My dad is going to _kill_ me.”

“For… sleepwalking?”

“N- oh. No, I guess you’re right, hn. Not exactly running off on purpose, is it?” Varian pinches the bridge of his nose, face buckling into a frown. “Thanks for, uh—”

“Waking you up.”

“Right. Um.”

He stares down at his feet, which are grubby and bare. A dull flush creeps into his cheeks; there’s an ugly scar crawling over his jaw, the flesh bubbled and pitted and pink, and he hunches as he scratches at it.

“Don’t know how to get home from here, do you?”

Varian coughs in a pitiful attempt to conceal an awkward, nervous laugh. “I uh, my Dad and I, we’re from Herrfeld, it’s near Anbruch, we came for the festival and the coronation and, hn, I don’t know the city so, um—”

“Know the name of your inn?”

“Uh—the Old Horn.”

“Great.” Cassandra gets to her feet and holds out a hand to help him up too, nodding. “Nice place; not too far from here. C’mon, I’ll show you the way.”

Gratitude splashes over his face, and he bounces right up. “ _Thanks!_ This is really, hn, _really_ embarrassing—I don’t normally sleepwalk. Actually I don’t think I’ve ever done it before, and what a way to start, right? But, anyway, thanks for, you know, for waking me up and—”

“It’s fine,” she says, more to cut off the babble than anything else. “Not a sleepwalker, huh?”

“Must’ve been— I’ve, uh…”

His voice peters out, and though it’s hard to tell in the gloom between streetlamp, Cassandra thinks he pales as he glances up at the stars.

“Nightmares?” she asks delicately.

Varian stops, peering up at her with startling urgency. “You said you work for the princess?”

“…Yeah?”

“Well—” He bites his lip, gnawing so hard she’s afraid he’ll draw blood; Cassandra can _see_ him waging some fierce inner battle with himself. Something he’s afraid to say, or afraid _not_ to say. She raises her eyebrows, and his expression firms. “Something bad is happening in my village, and I think the Princess can stop it.”

“Something bad in Herrfeld,” she echoes, prompting.

“Y- yeah. It started three months ago—around midsummer. I was… exploring… by the Nathair River, near the village? And I found this rock.” His jaw hardens. “This big, black, pointed rock. It made this sound, like a low hum? It just sprang up overnight, and it was unbreakable.”

She glances at his scrawny little arms, and makes a private note that Varian not being able to break something doesn’t make it _unbreakable._ But she nods and says, “Okay. Go on.”

“Well, I’m… I’m an alchemist.” He tosses his head in something like flinching defiance, like he expects her to laugh at him. When Cassandra just nods, he sucks in a quick breath and grins nervously. “So, I tried to study it. And I figured out it reacts to silver—” he points at his scarred cheek with a grimace “—pretty uh… violently. But nothing else. It’s inert—it doesn’t _make sense,_ but Adira says—”

“Adira?”

His whole face goes blank. “A- ad— Um, my… aunt. She’s… helping me.”

“With the rock.”

“Right.” He’s getting agitated now, his fingers raking through his hair in an irregular rhythm as he sways back and forth on his heels. “A- anyway, I started having… dreams.”

“About the rock.”

“Rocks. Plural.” Varian begins to pace, stumbling over the uneven cobbles but not seeming to notice in his distraction. “There’s more growing now all over that area, and the humming— I… it’s- it’s not _loud,_ but it—” For a moment he struggles, his voice creaking in his throat. “It’s like it’s in my _head,_ it’s in the dreams, it’s dark and cold and I hear the rocks and they’re- it’s like, it’s like— a _warning._ ”

“…Kid—”

His hands curl into fists in his hair. “The rocks are— they’re looking for something. I- I think, tonight, the sleepwalking—”

“You were looking for whatever these… rocks… are looking for her.”

“Yeah.” He stares desperately up at her. “I’m not crazy.”

Cassandra studies him for a long moment. The scar stands out stark against his pallor, and tears swim in his big, dark eyes. His hair’s a mess, his knobbly hands still clutching fistfuls of it her with earnest, pleading hope. Maybe he _is_ losing it; that sounds more plausible than… magical rocks talking to him in his dreams; but crazy or not, he’s _terrified._

She sighs. “I believe you,” she says. His whole body slumps with relief. “I’m still not sure why you think Rapunzel can help, but I’ll… talk to her about it.”

“She’s the sundrop,” Varian whispers, his voice hollow. “Adira thinks that’s what the rocks are after.”

“Well—” That doesn’t… sound great. But. “I’ll talk to Rapunzel about it,” she says again, reaching over to squeeze his shoulders. “If nothing else, I _know_ she’ll want to help if she can, and I know some… other people who might know something.”

Xavier’s full of legends; if anyone in Herzingen knows anything about magical singing rocks, it’ll be him.

 _And, hell,_ she thinks, wry, _maybe Rosalia Morcant and her eighteen thousand books will know something useful._

“Thank you,” Varian whispers. “ _Thank_ you.”

“For now, though, let’s get you back to your Dad, alright?”

“Okay.” He shuffles after her, quiet, and they make it the rest of the way to the Old Horn Inn without interruption. Cassandra watches him totter inside before dragging her fingers through her curls and jogging back the way she came.

She stops at the bench again, just long enough to pull out her quill and her letter to Morcant, and jots down a postscript.

_P.S. This may seem a strange request, but I’ve heard some rumors of mysterious black rocks appearing in the Coronan countryside. They are, apparently, tall, sharp, and impervious to any attempts to damage them; respond explosively to the touch of silver; and “sing” or “hum” in people’s dreams. It might just be stories, but I think it’s worth asking—have you ever encountered such a thing in your studies?_

_I would be grateful for whatever information you are able to provide._

_Warm regards,_

_Cassandra._

She watches the ink dry, the glistening of the lamplight fading into dull black on the page, and she cannot suppress a small shiver of discomfort as she folds it up again, tucks it into her satchel, and goes to collect Rapunzel.

_What a strange night._


	9. Chapter 8: The Sunlit Crown

###  **Chapter 8: The Sunlit Crown**

The second day of the Festival passes much as the first. It dawns crisp and bright with just a nip of cold in the air, and Cassandra spends the whole of it keeping pace with Rapunzel, as silent and invisible as the palace maids. Around noon she finds the opportunity to slip her response to Morcant’s letter into the hands of the First Chancellor, and then it’s down to the Osiander Street Market with Rapunzel and Fitzherbert for a brisk afternoon shepherding the Princess through throngs of her adoring subjects.

Rapunzel is browsing the wares of a florist’s stall when the temple bells toll six o’clock, and Cassandra leans past an enormous bouquet of chrysanthemums to tap her shoulder. “It’s time, Raps.”

“Already?” The faint, chilled flush in her cheeks cools to a nervous pallor as she snags her lip between her teeth. “Well…”

The stall’s vendor, who until now had watched them with catlike indifference, brushes her grey curls out of her eyes before plucking a crimson flower from one of her arrangements. “Here, Your Highness,” she says, in a quiet, oddly lilting voice. “Fire-heart cockscomb; for courage and good luck.”

“…Oh!” Beaming, Rapunzel tucks the flower behind her ear; its drooping petals curl gently down the side of her face like a feathered plume. “It’s beautiful, thank you so much—”

She shakes them both with the enthusiasm of her wave as Cassandra takes her by the elbow and coaxes her away from the stall, Fitzherbert trailing in their wake; then down the long ramble of Cannon Street to the temple, whose grand marble facade glows softly pink in the warm wash of the evening sun.

“Nervous?”

“Some.” Rapunzel brushes her fingertips against the petals of the cockscomb; a small smile flutters birdlike across her face. “Wish me luck?”

“You don’t need luck,” Cassandra whispers back, squeezing her wrist. “You’ve rehearsed this often enough. But good luck.”

The great oak doors of the temple stand open, and the antechamber is alight with hundreds of tiny flames. Candles twinkle in every niche, adding pale dribbles to the ancient rivulets and mounds of wax that streak the walls. The heady stench of wax grease and incense thickens the air into hot paste, and Cassandra can’t help a tiny smirk when Fitzherbert coughs.

One of the younger rectors waits for them before the archway leading into the sanctuary, cradling a candle in his hands.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs, lifting the tiny light toward her in lieu of a bow. “On this threshold of the night, we lay to rest the summer sun and vow our remembrance until spring; in warmth and light, will you lead us down the sunlit path?”

Rapunzel’s breath catches. Cassandra steps away, clasping her hands behind herself as the Princess takes the candle. “By the life in my heart and the hope in my soul,” she whispers, “I shall.”

An unfamiliar frisson of—awe, maybe—slips down her spine. Cassandra never cared much for the rites and ceremony of the Sunlit Temple, for the dusty traditions piled up like so much melted wax; but watching the firelight flicker over Rapunzel’s face stirs up a whisper of reverence.

It lingers as she falls into step behind Rapunzel. They are the last to enter the sanctuary, where the floor flows downward in a series of shallow stone tiers where Herzingen’s faithful gather to watch the ceremony, and thousands of faces turn to watch their descent from the summit to the crescent of stone where the royal family and their honored guests sit.

The last time Cassandra attended a full valediction, she had been ten and she sat with her father in the upper galleries, paying closer attention to the wax dripping from the candles bracketing the windows than to the ritual taking place far below. It feels… strange to mount the steps of the crescent, to take her seat next to Fitzherbert on its furthest corner.

They are close enough to see Rapunzel trembling as she proceeds onto the dais where the altar rises from its shallow pool and the colored light pouring through the stained windows paints patterns of swirling red and gold across the floor. Close enough to see the sweat beading on the brows of the rectors flanking the altar; the delicate traceries of gold trimming their white robes; the breathless, devout joy in their eyes.

Rapunzel stops in the center of the dais. She turns, slowly, paling as her gaze sweeps from one end of the room to the other. The tip of her tongue flicks between her lips. Her throat bobs as she swallows.

“People of Herzingen,” she begins, in a quiet voice that carries nonetheless in the cavernous space. “I’ve only had three months to know you. Not even a full summer.” She chuckles, and how many of the people here, Cassandra wonders, recognize the terror in that sound? “But in that time you have shown me more kindness, more love, and more light than I ever imagined the world could hold. You opened your arms, welcomed me, and taught me what it means to be happy and free. You gave me th- the sun.”

She falters. Her gaze weaves down through the crowd and comes to rest on her parents, and some of the fear cracks and falls away from her expression. What’s left behind is… soft. “I’m not special,” Rapunzel continues. “But… someone I love once told me that I have a- a gift for seeing the light, even when the night is darkest. And that’s what I want to do for all of you. For everyone in Corona. If you’ll let me. I’ll do my best to take everything you have given me in these past three months—the best months of my life—and give it back to you tenfold.”

The candle-flame dances in her hands. Silence reigns absolute as Rapunzel takes a breath, and Cassandra feels her heart lurch. _There,_ shining out of those fire-lit emerald eyes, is the Queen Rapunzel will become one day; caring and strong, selfless above all.

Whatever happens—whatever frustrations may rise or dangers may lurk in the shadows—she knows then that nothing will ever budge her from her Princess’s side.

Her voice cresting as she slips out of her own words and into the ritual cadence, Rapunzel says, “Even as the years turn to winter and the days grow shorter, the sun still shines. Our valediction is no farewell, but a sacred promise. W- will you follow me down the sunlit path?”

A susurrus answers as everyone in the hall murmurs _we will._ Bowing her head, Rapunzel turns away, kneeling before the reflection pool to float her candle across the water. The rectors lift their heads and begin to sing; an old chant that ripples and swells as the rest of the crowd picks it up; thousands of voices elevated into something ethereal and strange in the echoing resonance of the sanctuary. Cassandra shivers, her forearms prickling into gooseflesh as the chorus builds to thundering triumph.

It feels like the ritual seeping into her blood; like a history she could belong to, if she chose. Her chest tightens, thick with the waxy air and baffling emotion, and she breathes out in a slow, steady stream as she rises for the procession.

Rapunzel goes first; then the rectors, then the royal family and their guests; then the rest of the congregation in a great cascade of footsteps and mingling voices. Teenaged acolytes stand at intervals around the topmost tier, passing out candles in somber silence. Cassandra takes hers with a nod of thanks, cupping her hand around the flame to shield it from the draft as she follows the head of the procession into the street.

The gloaming shines like polished bronze in firelight. Rapunzel leads them down a long, winding path, and the crowd grows with every step as others join, armed with candles and torches of their own. By the time they reach the harbor, it feels like every person in Herzingen is behind them.

When the chant ends there’s nothing but the hiss of surf agains the docks; a deafening quiet. The crowd flattens out, dispersing in either direction along the waterfront. Hushed expectation sweetens the air as Rapunzel steps up to the gigantic brazier before the bridge.

“We light the beacons tonight,” Rapunzel cries over the sound of the waves, “in celebration of the summer, in honor of the sun, and in defiance of the winter cold. Whatever storms may come, we will keep these fires burning until the summer dawns again.”

She lowers her candle to the fresh kindling, and even the sea seems to settle into silence as they all watch the flames catch. The logs arranged inside the brazier _pop_ as the fledgling blaze licks against them; sparks rise in a dizzying swirl.

To the left and right, the next braziers flare to life; and then the next, and the next, on and on and out of sight. In years past, Cassandra has watched this happen from the far edges of the procession—clutching her candle as it guttered in the sea breeze, waiting for the signal to disperse to ripple up from the waterfront—but this is— this…

 _…What is_ he _doing?_

Fitzherbert has doused his candle, and Cassandra watches with faint alarm as he strolls away from the crowd and nudges the rectors out of his way so he can stand next to Rapunzel. He clears his throat, and the quiet takes on a… sharp edge that he, grinning toothily, does not seem to notice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Your Majesties, Your, ah… Rectorships…” Disapproving murmurs trickle through the crowd, and Cassandra makes a frantic, futile effort to catch his attention so she can signal for him to _stop._

As if he’d even listen to her. She bites back a groan.

“Eugene?” Rapunzel whispers. “What…?”

Fitzherbert takes her by the hand, pulling her away from the braziers with a quick, jittery step. He’s still grinning. “Tonight we’re celebrating the light of the sun,” he says. “And for you, Rapunzel. Because you’re the sun.”

_…Oh no._

He wouldn’t.

“And I, for one, can think of no better way than to celebrate the love that I have for this woman than this.”

_He would._

Shocked gasps and outraged mutters break through the crowd as Fitzherbert drops to one knee; oblivious or indifferent to the spectacle he’s making of himself and Rapunzel. Cassandra takes a stumbling half-step forward before sheer second-hand mortification stops her in her tracks.

Rapunzel murmurs something, too soft for Cassandra to hear it over the waves; whatever it is makes him chuckle as he pulls a small wooden box out of his coat.

“ _Fitzherbert_ —” Cassandra hisses through clenched teeth.

He ignores her. Of course he ignores her. “Rapunzel, from the moment I first met you and you knocked me out with that frying pan—” his pompous, self-satisfied grin stretches so wide it seems for a moment it’ll crack his face, but no such luck “—I knew it was love. You’re my light, Rapunzel, and I want to be yours.”

“Eugene…”

Rapunzel’s nervous smile is fast becoming a rictus; her eyes keep skating from Eugene to the crowd, back and forth, back and forth.

“I want to be your partner in all things,” Fitzherbert prattles on. “I can’t wait to share our whole lives together—I want to raise our children here, our children’s children, grow old and grey celebrating festivals of our own—”

Cassandra finally manages to wrench her eyes away from this disaster of a proposal long enough to glance at the royal family—Frederic looks like _he’s_ just been hit over the head with a frying pan, and Arianna has adopted a careful, fastidiously empty expression, while Gilbert is _white_ with anger—and then at the rectors, clustered around Prince Ludolf, who keeps opening and closing his mouth like he’s trying to interrupt but can’t, quite, find the words.

_Oh, stars._

“—And I want to spend the rest of our lives here, together, forever.”

He stops. The crackling flames and soft grumbling of the sea eat into the shocked silence. Rapunzel looks on the brink of outright collapse; wan and trembling.

“…Rapunzel?”

Confusion bleeds into his voice, and Cassandra resolves to kick him the next time she has the chance. _Hard._

“I- I— _wow._ I… love you, Eugene, but I- this—” Air wheezes out of her in a panicked _whoosh._ Cassandra blows out her candle and slips it into the pocket of her skirt; when Rapunzel bolts, Cass will be right behind her. “I- not— not _now,_ I— I can’t—”

Rapunzel scuttles backwards, mumbling a feeble excuse about needing some air before she spins on her heel and flees. Gasps split the crowd, and Cassandra launches herself after the Princess.

“Raps!”

### ❦

Her feet slap the cobbles as she swerves onto a darker street, stumbling over her heavy skirts. Something roars in her ears; she’s distantly aware of charging past outstretched hands, shoving someone out of her path in her haste to escape all those _stares,_ but she doesn’t stop until she trips over herself and lands hard on her knees. A stitch burns in her chest, and dizziness devours her thoughts; sweat clings to her scalding face as she gulps for air that fights to claw its way out of her lungs.

“Rapunzel! Raps—”

Pattering footsteps. Cassandra skids to a halt beside her. “Oh, Raps, I…”

Cass touches her back, and something slips sideways; Rapunzel lurches into the touch, throwing her arms around Cass’s middle with something too choked and dry to call it a sob. “I- I—”

“Shh, shh.” Cass gathers her up, kneading her shoulders, and they don’t say anything else for a while. It’s quiet. The sharp jags of her breath never quite become tears; her face stays dry.

“I know a shortcut back to the palace,” Cassandra says at length.

Rapunzel nods. She lets Cass help her up and guide her along the streets, resting her head on Cass’s shoulder, feeling almost sick with relief; buildings pass in a blur, and then she blinks and they’re in the tunnels. The darkness doesn’t even slow Cass down.

They emerge just outside the palace gates. Cass pauses just long enough to explain the situation to the guards at the gates and send one of them down to assure her parents that she made it home safe and sound, then sweeps her inside.

But Cass doesn’t lead her to the right—through the east wing and up to her bedroom—but left, down a narrow corridor Rapunzel’s never seen before. When she makes a quiet noise of confusion, Cass just sighs.

“I think you could do without talking to Eugene just yet.”

“But I—”

“Raps.” Cass squeezes her shoulder. “Trust me, alright? You both need some time to… cool off before you talk about– _that._ ”

“I hurt him,” Rapunzel protests. “I need to—”

“He can stand to have his feelings hurt for a couple hours.”

She relents. It’s– stupid and selfish, but she’s too tired to argue and the thought of apologizing to Eugene now is—

Well. She doesn’t… want to.

“Okay,” she mumbles. Cassandra nods, steering her further into the maze of sparse, narrow halls. “Pascal’s in my room. I…”

“I’ll bring him to you,” Cass says.

That’s good enough. Rapunzel trails along without paying attention to the twists and turns until Cass pushes open a door and ushers her into what turns out to be a tiny bedroom.

She blinks. “Is this… yours?”

“Mmhm.”

She’s never thought about where Cassandra sleeps before; this room is… cozier than Rapunzel would have expected, with the remains of a fire smoldering in the hearth and dozens of tiny wooden figurines crowding the mantlepiece. Horses, mostly.

Cass pushes her into a stool in front of the hearth, fills a glass of water from a pitcher on her desk, and tells her drink it all with a tone stern enough to bring a reluctant smile to Rapunzel’s face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She tries, anyway. After Cass slips out of the room, Rapunzel sips at the water while her mind wanders back to the dark waterfront; the appalled crowd, Eugene, his face falling—

 _What is_ wrong _with me? Why— I love Eugene! How—_

_Stop. Stop it._

Her hands shake. Her stomach twists up in knots until she gives up on the water and sets the glass aside. She gets up to look at the little horses lining the mantle—rough wood, all of them, carved—prancing, rearing, all messy tails and fragile legs. Other animals perch here and there between them—a lumpy rabbit, several owls with outstretched wings, a rat sitting up on its haunches, even a chameleon with a familiar little crook at the end of its tail.

Not just any chameleon. _Pascal._

_Did Cass… carve all these?_

She’s still wondering when the door creaks open again, making her jump, but it’s just Cassandra with Pascal cradled in her hands. He crawls into Rapunzel’s arms as soon as she reaches out, chirruping softly as he climbs to her shoulder and tucks himself into the crook of her neck. His claws prickle through the fabric of her dress, and she feels… better.

Cass perches on her vacated stool, chin in her hand.

“Where’s your head at now, Raps?”

“I…” The brief reprieve of her curiosity and Pascal’s comfort dissipates, leaving her raking her fingers through her hair in frustration. “It’s not like I don’t– I do _love_ Eugene, and I want to- t- to marry him, but I- just— just… not… Why did he _do that?_ ”

It startles her, that question. It’s like kicking up a stone and finding wriggling kernels of anger underneath.

She’s _angry._

Maggoty guilt squirms through the anger, squelching.

“Raps.” A sanguine calm settles over Cassandra’s face, and Rapunzel stares at her as she stands up, rolling her shoulders with sudden, languid ease. “I know you love him, but Fitzherbert’s an idiot sometimes.”

Rapunzel opens her mouth. She closes her mouth.

“And he deserved exactly the reaction he got. I hope it knocks some sense into him. But for now, Raps, I want you to stop thinking about it and come with me.”

She holds out a hand. Rapunzel stares at her. “What?”

This gets her a roll of Cassandra’s eyes and a more insistent, “Come with me. You need to clear your head, and I know just the thing.”

“…Is… this going to be like the riding lessons?”

Cass just grins. “Something like that.”

Rapunzel takes her hand, and Cass bounces her eyebrows and leads her to the wardrobe. “There’s— don’t freak out?”

Brow crinkling, Rapunzel nods.

She’s ready for—who knows; another secret passage maybe, Cass seems to have an endless supply—anything, almost anything, except for Cass to pull open the wardrobe doors to reveal a one-woman armory.

A sword gleams next to its sheath on a mount bolted to the inside of one door; smaller racks bear a battalion’s worth of daggers and knives next to it, and hanging from the other door there’s a hatchet, several saws, a bow and several quivers of arrows, a quarterstaff—

“Wh- where’s the _war_?”

“I— well, you know.” Coughing, Cassandra runs a hand through her curls. “When your dad’s the Commander you tend to… collect… stuff.”

 _How,_ Rapunzel wonders, gawking at it all, _did I end up with the world’s most fascinating lady-in-waiting?_

When Cass tosses her a pair of worn trousers and a boy’s shirt and tells her to change, she doesn’t question it; just obeys, sneaking befuddled peeks at Cass while she, too, peels off her dress and kicks her way into trousers.

“So, Raps,” Cass says, pulling a shirt over her head before leaning in to rummage around in the back of the wardrobe. She comes out a moment later with a pair of wooden swords, which she waggles at Rapunzel with a grin. “Nothing like a good spar to blow of steam. How’d you like to learn how to fence?”

### ❦

It’s trivial to sneak from her room to the undercroft and then into the labyrinth without anyone noticing, and by the time they’re in the tunnels Rapunzel’s all but bouncing, the whole proposal debacle forgotten. While Cassandra kindles the lantern, she bursts out, “So can you use _all_ those weapons?”

“Some of them are tools,” Cassandra says primly, then cracks a grin. “But yeah. Owning a weapon you can’t use is just asking for someone to use it against you someday.” She flips her waster up, propping the blade jauntily on her shoulder, feeling— well, the starry-eyed enthusiasm in Rapunzel’s eyes is a nice change of pace. “I’ve been handling weapons since I was six. Dad started with basic knife safety, then gave me my first waster to celebrate my formal adoption when I was eight. I… train with the Watch when I can, and come down here to practice on my own when I can’t.”

“Woah.” Rapunzel swings her own waster; a clumsy _swish-swoosh,_ the hilt bobbing in her clumsy grip. “Y’know, I’m pretty handy with a frying pan.”

“Brained Fitzherbert with one, or so I’m told,” Cassandra says dryly. “But, trust me, Raps, a sword is _so_ much better.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. And—” she bumps her waster against Rapunzel’s shoulder with a smirk “—in a couple hours you’ll say the same.”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty fond of my frying pan.”

“Sure. But tell me this, Raps: what’s a weapon _for?_ ”

“…To… fight with?”

“Nnnope. You can fight with your hands; a weapon’s a tool, a- an _extension_ of you, of what you can do in a fight.”

“Okay…?”

“And a frying pan,” Cass continues brightly as they round the final corner, “doesn’t extend anything very far. It’s small, awkward; lacks balance. Not a great shape for parrying. No cross guard to protect your hand. Winning a fight with one says a lot more about _you_ than the frying pan. A sword, on the other hand… A sword is _everything,_ Raps. You’ll see—we’re here.”

The door to her sanctuary hangs off its hinges, the wood cracked and mildewy. The inside– isn’t much better, Cassandra supposes as she nudges Rapunzel through and tries to see the place through a stranger’s eyes. Just a small, bare stone box with a makeshift pell at one end and a few moldering old crates. It doesn’t _look_ impressive, or safe, or cherished.

But it’s still _hers._

“…Where’s… here?”

“It’s an old storeroom I use for practice. Now—” Setting the lantern in its usual spot, she takes Rapunzel by the elbow and draws her into the center of the room, gesturing for her to lift the waster. “—to start, you’ll need to get the hang of the grip and some basic forms, so move your feet like _this…”_

Time flows by like water as she guides Rapunzel through it; stance to stance, lunges and cuts, guards and parries and ripostes, pausing every few minutes to adjust her grip. It’s easy—the Princess has a keen sense of balance, and she absorbs everything Cassandra says with an intense focus that has her preening by the time she pronounces Rapunzel ready to try a real spar.

“But slower than a real fight,” she adds.

“Do it right, not fast,” Rapunzel parrots in a sing-song, planting her feet, her face shining with gleeful determination.

“Mhm.” Cass falls into her guard. “Just come at me when you’re ready.”

Rapunzel’s expression _sharpens_ as she gathers herself for her first strike—a sideways cut Cass parries before pushing forward with a slow riposte that sends her hopping backward with a yelp as the waster knocks her shoulder.

“Good try.” Cass pulls back. “Aim at _me,_ though, not my sword. Again.”

And again—and again—and a gain. Around and around until Rapunzel, panting, calls for a pause. Cassandra grins as they break apart. The Princess didn’t land a single hit, but— “You’ve got a real knack for this, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And already improving—getting less twitchy, smoother on your feet. You got in a couple good ripostes, which honestly’s more than I expected. Not bad for a first try.” She smirks, delighting in the huge grin curling over Rapunzel’s face. “So– what do you say, same time tomorrow night?”

Laughing, still a little breathless, Rapunzel swings her waster onto her shoulder and sticks out her chin. “If I’m not too wiped out by the coronation, I’d love to. And…” She snickers. “I… see what you mean about frying pans and swords.”

“See? Told you.” Cassandra slings an arm around Rapunzel’s shoulders and leads them both to the exit, scooping up the lantern on their way. “Now let’s get you back to your bedroom for your beauty sleep. And, hey… Raps?”

“…Yeah?”

“You did good today. With all of it, not just this.” Rapunzel ducks her head, flushing, and Cassandra bumps their hips together. “I mean it. That speech of yours in the temple— you’re gonna be—” She pauses, aware that she’s treading on the brink of saying something _sappy._ “…Really something. As a queen.”

Silence; but she can see the curve of Rapunzel’s cheek as she smiles, and comfortable quiet follows them out of the labyrinth. They stop in her room so Rapunzel can change back into her dress and collect Pascal from his nap in front of the hearth, and then it’s up to the highest reaches of the palace.

The pleasant mood lasts until the top of the tower, where Fitzherbert is sulking on the floor outside Rapunzel’s bedroom. His hair’s mussed, his eyes rimmed red, and when he looks up and sees them coming, the vague misery scrawled over his face congeals into outright panic.

Cassandra glowers at him.

“Sunshine, where—”

“You’ve got a lot of _nerve,_ Fitzherbert—”

“Cass.” Rapunzel looks less… fragile than she did before, the clouded guilt in her eyes faded into troubled mist. A hopeful sign. “I can handle this. Alone. Please.”

“…Okay.”

She gives Rapunzel a nod, and Fitzherbert the most vicious _don’t you dare make this worse_ stare she can muster before bidding them a goodnight.

As she slips back down the stairs, she toys with the idea of lurking in the shadows to ambush Fitzherbert on his way down—he deserves a thorough scolding, and she _knows_ Rapunzel won’t give it to him—but then again, he must have gotten an earful from… everyone, after the stunt he pulled.

That will have to be enough.

### ❦

It’s… quiet, after Cassandra leaves. They stare at each other for a moment. Eugene shuffles, not quite looking at her.

”Sunshine—”

“Eugene—” It tries to unfurl out in a hard _snap,_ and Rapunzel runs her fingers through her hair, presses her hands over her eyes, and tries to calm herself. The slight weight of Pascal against her neck helps. “I’m… sorry, I—”

“No, Rapunzel, _I’m_ sorry,” Eugene says. She peeks at him through her fingers; his expression has blurred into apology, absent the frantic edge from before. He rubs the back of his neck, rueful. “I meant every word I said, but I should _never_ have put you on the spot like that. And… then I came back here, and you were gone, and I just- I’m glad you’re okay.”

 _But I’m not,_ Rapunzel thinks, thinks, doesn’t say. The hot, tarry feeling of anger pushes its way up her throat again and underneath it her stomach twists and bubbles and all she wants to do now is to crawl into bed and sleep and not _think_ about interrupted ceremonies or disastrous proposals or the coronation tomorrow morning, when she’ll stand to be crowned in front of hundreds of people who watched her run away like a terrified child. The fading warmth of the spar has guttered out and left her cold.

She’s _not_ okay.

“I’m just… really tired, Eugene,” she mumbles. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? _After_ the coronation?”

He winces. But his hands go to her shoulders, gentle as they ever are, and she leans into him as he kisses her forehead. “Of course, Sunshine,” he says. “Tomorrow. Sleep… well, okay?”

“…You too, Eugene.”

She watches him slink away with a muddled sense of—guilt, but also… relief. He’s not angry, not distraught beyond reason, not impatient to talk it all out _now._

He apologized.

“Eugene?” she calls softly, just before the curve of the stairs carries him out of sight. He turns, eyes shadowed in the dim light but his little smile warm as ever. “I love you.”

All the tension sags out of his shoulders. “I love you too, Rapunzel.”

With one last smile, she trudges into her bedroom, shuts the door, sets Pascal on his pillow, and collapses into bed without even bothering to wriggle out of her dress.

She dreams.

Of fire, roaring out of the braziers. Of crimson fire flowing down the streets, lapping at buildings crisp as autumn leaves, of golden sparks unfurling like flower blossoms in the darkness, like the fluttering wings of a bird in the night. When she wakes, the small pink starburst of scar tissue on her wrist throbs with a sharp, seething pain, and feels hot as fire to the touch.

### ❦

Her maids dress her for the coronation in silence, not even chatting among themselves, while Rapunzel stares woodenly at her bedroom door and chants _it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s going to be fine_ to herself. It doesn’t quell the nauseous churning in her stomach, or the lingering ache of the scar.

Cassandra strolls in while Johanna’s tightening the laces of her dress; she gives Rapunzel a wry smile and flops onto the edge of the bed, stroking Pascal’s spine when the chameleon crawls into her lap.

“Your mother would like you to have breakfast with her in the solarium,” she says blandly. “In private. She’s all banqueted out, apparently.”

“Private sounds _great_ right about now.”

“I’ll bet.”

Silence creeps back in, less sickening than before. Cass’s presence feels steadying, somehow, and the promise of another timely rescue from Mom even more so. Once she’s dressed, Cass sends her maids away, scoops up Pascal, and settles him on Rapunzel’s shoulder. He chirps contentedly, curling his tail around her neck.

“I think Corona’s finest can deal with one day of a princess with a lizard on her shoulder,” Cass says through a conspiratorial smirk.

Rapunzel grins. “Thanks, Cass.”

She’s glad of his presence as they make their way down to the solarium. And glad of Cass’s company, too, though neither of them speaks. When she first came to Herzingen, she found these bouts of quiet unsettling; so when Cass fell into one of her taciturn moods, she’d chattered away in awkward attempts to talk her out of them.

But she has the measure of Cass now. She thinks. Her silence aren’t disappointment or disinterest—as Rapunzel felt at first—but a simple contentment with leaving things unsaid.

That is, Rapunzel decides as she soaks it in, a trait she likes very much.

They’re almost to the solarium when Cass murmurs, “Raps?”

“Mm?”

“I’d… appreciate it if you didn’t, um, mention the sword lessons to anyone.” She laces her fingers together in front of herself, grimacing. “I’m not sure your father would… approve.”

“Oh. Well—” Keeping these lessons a secret seems harmless enough—exciting, even—if puzzling. She would have thought Dad would be _pleased_ she’s learning to defend herself. “I won’t.”

Cass relaxes, flashing Rapunzel a quick smile before she pulls open the solarium door.

“—out _rageous,_ of course, but when has that ever stopped him? _Bastard._ ” Abraham slices a sausage in two with a loud _clink_ as Rapunzel steps into the solarium. “I’ve been bothering Rodolfo to intervene, but of course he never listens to _me_ — ah, Rapunzel! A happy morning to you, my dear.”

Mom murmurs a greeting too, quieter but no less pleased, as Rapunzel drops into one of the lounges and helps herself to a slice of toast and a few pieces of orange.

“What were you talking about?”

Abraham waves his fork dismissively, coming dangerously near to losing his next bite of eggs in the process. “Eldoran politics. Nothing of especial interest to poor Arianna—” Mom rolls her eyes “—but I appreciate her indulgence.”

“I enjoy our talks,” Mom replies, sounding amused. Then, “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Nervous?”

“A little.” Rapunzel nibbles the corner of her toast without much appetite. “This whole Festival’s been—well I’m ready for it to be over. It’s… a lot.”

“I collapsed during my inauguration,” Abraham says cheerily. “Stood up to give a speech, looked out at the crowd, fainted dead away. Nerves. Never lived it down. Still detest speaking in public. Not like you, dear; you’ve got the makings of a fine orator.” He makes her a little toast with his fork. “Just comfort yourself with the thought that at least you’re not Uncle Abraham, swooning away into your steward’s arms.”

Rapunzel manages a weak chuckle before Mom says, delicately, “And how are you faring with… Eugene?”

The atmosphere in the solarium turns sticky. Only the feeling of Pascal’s claws on her shoulder and Cass’s hand on her back keeps Rapunzel from shrinking into herself; she wants to sink into the floor and never come out again. “We- we. It’s fine.”

Mom gives her a considering look over the rim of her teacup. She lowers it carefully, her lips pursed, and says, “I hope he’s apologized to you.”

“Oh. He did, yes.”

“Good.”

“I could pull him aside for a chat,” Abraham says. Off her startled glance, he adds, “He seems like a nice enough young man, but… in need of a bit of guidance. Not noble-born, is he? No. He’s as new to all this as you, but I’d wager he’s had quite a bit less help.”

She blinks. ”I—that’s… true.” No one offered _Eugene_ any lessons; she hadn’t ever thought about why, or whether he might need them. It never occurred to her to wonder whether he might be floundering too. “I’d– please be nice to him.”

“My _dear_ niece.” Abraham presses his hand over his chest in mock offense, his lips quirked with good cheer. “I’m nice to _everyone._ ”

### ❦

The coronation is held in the great hall of the palace, before the royal thrones, and the sunlight streaming through the windows limns Rapunzel’s face in a white-gold radiance. Cassandra sits near the front of the crowd, hands folded in her lap and Fitzherbert sitting stiffly beside her; she doesn’t hear a single word of Prince Ludolf’s grand speech about the dignity and duty of the crown and _blah blah blah_.

She’s too transfixed by Rapunzel.

Despite the elaborate—and uncomfortable—finery of her coronation gown, not a whisper of discomfort shows through the Princess’s serene expression. Her eyes shine a deep, clear green, and the touch of sunlight on her hair streaks her brown locks with spun gold; as if the sun itself remembers the time Rapunzel spent as a vessel for its power. She would look immaculate, a princess from a storybook, were it not for Pascal, who perches on her shoulder with reptilian smugness.

Halfway through the ceremony, a fly buzzes in from somewhere and weaves a few meandering, confused loops around Rapunzel’s head while the chameleon’s bulbous eyes swivel to follow it; then Pascal opens his mouth and his long sticky tongue lashes out, plucking the fly from the air. A surprised titter races through crowd. Rapunzel beams, reaching up to rub the knobbly scales of his crest.

It’s not _proper._ But it’s perfect. Three months of hard work have made a princess capable of standing before them all like this—radiating confidence and command of their attention—without losing any of her essential… _Rapunzel-ness._

Cassandra grins.

She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so proud.


	10. Chapter 9: Strongbow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a day late with this one, folks! This chapter took a bit of an unexpected turn on me—I figured out a better route for it to take than what I had already written... on Friday, a couple hours before I had planned to post. :| 
> 
> We'll be back to our regularly-scheduled Friday posting next week! ♥

###  **Chapter 9: Strongbow**

In the cold, grey dawn the morning after the coronation, Eugene crawls out of bed and takes himself down to the market on Osiander Street.

A damp chill pervades the air. The meager drizzle dripping out of the sky has snuffed out all the little candles left over from the Festival, leaving only the enormous braziers around the waterfront still alight. What few people there are mad enough to be out at this hour, in this weather, hurry along, huddled in their cloaks against the morning miseries.

 _What,_ Eugene asks himself as he meanders past the still-closed shops, _am I doing?_

Sleep was a rare commodity in his thieving days; even the most disreputable roadside inn posed the risk of a slit throat or summoned guards in the night and, well, if he never has to camp out in the woods again it’ll be too soon. But in the palace he’s settled into a routine of luxurious lie-ins before his mid-morning massage, and rising so early leaves him feeling… wrung out. Insubstantial around the edges.

He sighs.

After the coronation had come a banquet, with Eugene consigned to a seat well away from Rapunzel—next to _Cass_ an _dra,_ who stared him down with a reproving scowl when he tried to make conversation. When he rose from his finished meal intent on getting to Rapunzel and talking out the debacle of the proposal, the Duke of Carvajal swooped out of nowhere, hauled him into the corridor, and treated him to the most mortifying lecture Eugene’s ever endured: about manners and respectability and the proper timing of things and _patience,_ all delivered with a vague jolliness that somehow made it worse. And by the time the Duke released him, Cassandra had already spirited Rapunzel away to who-knows-where, leaving Eugene with nobody but the frog to talk to.

Maybe it’s for the best. It gave him time to think—and let the Duke’s advice rattle around in his head. _You don’t make a partnership with a ring, my boy! You have to build it up from the ground together._

Sound advice. For all it stings.

Indecisive thunder rumbles overhead, and Eugene casts a wary glance at the flat grey clouds. What a _day_ to experiment with invigorating morning walks—but he’s committed to the thing now, so he pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders and carries on, through the dreary ramble of vacant stalls scattered around the lower end of the market, past the constabulary, and down onto the wharf.

The night fishermen have made port and begun to unload their catch for the morning, and the whole harbor smells thickly of fish above the brine. Gulls swarm the docks, opportunistic greed shining in their beady little eyes, screaming.

And down by the bridge, a traveler’s riding into town astride a huge black horse; he pulls his horse to a stop in front of the first brazier—Eugene winces as the memory of his own botched proposal in front of those flames paints itself across his vision—and swings down to warm himself before the fire, chattering with some enthusiasm at the guard posted by the bridge.

Deciding that he could do worse than strike up a normal conversation with regular people who aren’t servants or jumped up on fifty levels of nobility or _Cass_ an _dra,_ Eugene alters his course. A casual stroll and a friendly grin mark his approach; most of the city watchmen trust him about as far as they could throw him, but he’s bound to crack through that wary shell sooner or later. “Go-ood morning, Officer— what _was_ your name again? Franz?”

“Julien,” the guard mutters. “…Morning.”

“…Hold up now. Is that—”

The traveler swivels around, and Eugene nearly swallows his tongue; the man’s cowl obscures most of his face, but he’d know that jawline and fussy beard and the broad grin and the _voice_ to go with it anywhere.

He sputters. “ _Lance?!_ ”

“Flynn!” Lance bounds forward, clapping Eugene’s shoulder with exuberant force that Eugene, flabbergasted, hardly feels, and drags him the last few steps into the warmth of the brazier. “If it isn’t just the man I wanted to see! How you doing, buddy?”

“You know this clown?” Julien asks.

“ _Hey_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, I know him.” He flips back his cowl, snickering down at Eugene. “Heh—you should see the look on your _face._ ”

“Lance, what—”

“I’ve been down in Artois the last couple weeks,” Lance says cheerfully. “Heard the rumors about _you_ —” he prods a finger into Eugene’s chest “—rescuing the princess and getting all _fancy._ So I thought I’d head north and see how old Flynn’s getting on these days.”

“…Eugene.”

“Eu- _Eugene?_ Really?” Lance gives him a patient, waiting-for-the-punchline look, but when Eugene just stares back with raw disgruntlement, he shrugs and says, “Alright, Eugene, whatever you say. How you been, buddy? Want to introduce me to your girl?”

“My– Lance, she is the _Princess of Corona_ —”

“Yyyyes…?”

Nothing but bland innocence in Lance’s bright brown eyes; staring into them, Eugene feels a sudden _awful_ pang of sympathy for Cass of all people. He feels like he’s watching someone about to tackle Rapunzel off a cliff and it gives him an– _uncomfortable_ glimpse of what the Dragon Lady must see when she looks at _him._

 _Great._ Wonderful! That’s _just_ what he needs.

“Lance.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Hard. “Buddy—”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” Lance says. “See you later, Julien— nice meeting you—” Gathering up his reins, he slings an arm around Eugene’s shoulders and steers them both up Osiander Street. “What could a devilishly handsome lifelong criminal such as myself possibly want from his long-lost partner in crime who just _happens_ to live in a palace now—other than to rob the place blind?”

“That about covers it yeah—”

“But things have _changed,_ Fl— Eugene.”

“Have. They.”

“Oh, yeah. See, after you dipped, the Baron—hoo, _boy._ He was not happy.” Lance shudders. “Got me thinking, you know– is this _really_ how I want to spend my life? Outlawed, no job security, no one to watch my back…? No! So I kept my head down and did what I was told until I got the chance to run and got myself out of Eldora. Never looked back.”

Eugene blinks. “Where’d you go.”

“Ended up in Vinovia for a bit. Down in Chilon, you know? Lotta rich old folks, good money for an independent thief. Anyway—” He flips a coin to an unkempt-looking child manning a soggy fruit stall before snagging an apple from the display. He crunches into it with relish and continues through the mouthful, “Got caught, went to jail, took a bargain with the local magistrate to skip the execution and work off my sentence as a thief-taker instead.”

“…Huh.”

“Yup.” His horse inhales the other half of the apple with a greed that would put even Max to shame, snorting its approval. “An-y-way, turns out stealing stolen things _back_ is a lot more fun than the reverse, so… I stuck with it. Earned decent money. Bought my horse—this is Axel, by the way.”

The horse gives Eugene the flat, dead-eyed stare of horses everywhere, huffing in a disinterested sort of way.

“Charmed,” Eugene mutters.

“He is too,” Lance says, in defiance of all evidence. “And—now I’m here.”

“Great.”

“Tch. It’s almost like you’re not happy to _see_ me, Eugene.” Lance mopes at him for a second or two until he sees that Eugene isn’t buying it, then sighs and drops his voice low. “Alright, look. About a month ago I get hired to retrieve some jewelry for this lady. Her grandmothers—family heirlooms, right? I’ve been tracking this guy for weeks—almost had him pinned in Artois—but he got away. Now I know we didn’t end things on the best of terms and you really have no reason to trust me, but I’m just here to do my job and it’d help me out a lot if you could just… play along for the day. Come on, Eugene.”

Scowling, Eugene scuffs his boots over the cobbles. Plenty of things he’d like to say—chief among them _no,_ he’s not going to jeopardize what’s left of Frederic’s goodwill by dragging another ex-con into the palace—but something stops him. The little voice in his thoughts that sounds like Rapunzel, begging the thugs at the Duckling to remember their humanity, or telling _him_ she liked Eugene better than Flynn.

He groans. “Fine. Fine, Lance, but you’ve gotta swear you won’t get into trouble—I’ve got a real… I’ve got a good thing here, I don’t—”

“I won’t mess it up for you,” Lance says, pressing his hand over his heart. “Honest.”

“Right. Okay.” Madness. “Let’s go find Rapunzel.”

## ❦

It’s smothering inside the sheltered yard of the smithy, the heat palpable and thick as bog-water. Sweat prickles down the back of Cassandra’s neck the instant they set foot inside, and she slouches beside one of the water barrels Xavier keeps on hand in case of accidents, panting, while Rapunzel gawks at the smith himself.

“Good morning, Princess.” Xavier nods to both of them, never breaking the rhythm of his hammer as he beats a half-finished breastplate over his anvil. “Cassandra. How can I help you girls on this fine morning?”

Soot marks his frazzled grey beard and the curly tufts of hair poking out behind his ears; a thin layer of sweat and grease gives his dark face a shine not unlike oiled steel. His every syllable puffs out in time with the fall of his hammer. Cassandra doesn’t think she’s ever met _anyone_ as thoroughly in his element as Xavier when he’s working his forge.

Rapunzel appears too awed by the sight of hot steel taking shape under the hammer to answer, so Cassandra clears her throat. “We were hoping you could answer some questions we have about the sundrop.”

A happy gleam appears in his eyes. “Ah. Of course. There are many legends of the sundrop flower, but what little is known for certain is truly a wonder. I would be happy to tell you what stories I know.”

“Thanks, Xavier.”

She told Rapunzel of her encounter with Varian yesterday afternoon, and the Princess took to the mystery like— well, like someone eager to seize on anything to distract her from the lingering tension between her and her idiot boyfriend. They ensconced themselves in the library after dinner, chipping their way through _Chasing Sunlight: Myths of the Sundrop, Volumes One_ through _Six,_ and came up empty-handed. Nothing sounded even a little like the kid’s singing, dream-invading black rocks.

“What did you want to ask?”

Rapunzel rouses herself from her fascination at last to launch into their tale: Cassandra’s encounter with Varian, all the details of the rocks as he described them, their fruitless search in the Solveig Library, her own uneasiness. While she speaks Xavier tapers off his hammering and, after a moment’s inspection, thrusts the breastplate back into the forge.

“Black rocks, you say?” he asks, pumping the bellow on the forge with an absentminded air. The sweltering heat unfolds another layer of warmth. “As a matter of fact, I do know a tale that may be of interest. It begins—as so many stories do—with Lord Demanitus.”

“Who?”

“He’s a folk hero, Raps.” Cassandra shoots Xavier a skeptical glance, which just makes him chuckle. “But I didn’t know he had anything to do with the sundrop flower.”

“Oh, he did. But he had many disagreements with the Sunlit Temple, and so his quest for the flower is not well known.” Smiling, Xavier lays his hammer down, dusts off his hands, and shoos Rapunzel away from the glowing forge. “Lord Demanitus lived in Corona many centuries ago, before the beginning of the Peaceful Era. He was a mighty sorcerer and one of the first alchemists, and the legend of the sundrop flower captivated him for most of his life. He searched for it for many years, but never found it. In time, he became convinced that the answers lay outside of Corona, and so, he set out on a journey to discover them.”

“Where did he go?”

“The better question, Princess, would be where did he not go?” He prods the breastplate with his tongs, humming tonelessly to himself before continuing the tale. “Lord Demanitus traveled far and wide in his quest to understand the sundrop flower and its legendary magic. For decades, this quest consumed his every waking thought, and he learned much about the nature of the sundrop—and its counterpart.”

Cassandra jolts forward, her pulse quickening. That’s more progress than they found in hours of sitting around in the library. “There’s a second flower?”

“Perhaps.” Xavier strokes his beard, leaving another trail of grease behind. “In his writings, Lord Demanitus describes a force of great power existing in a state of fragile balance with the sundrop flower, its natural opposite. Just as the sundrop gives light and healing, the opposing force is a source of darkness and destruction.”

“So you’re saying these black rocks are a kind of… anti-sundrop.” Rapunzel twists a lock of hair around her finger, her expression drawn.

“If your friend is right,” Xavier replies, with a nod to Cassandra, “and they are indeed searching for the sundrop, then… perhaps. Lord Demanitus did not specify the nature of this dark power, for he feared that others less scrupulous than he might seek to use it for evil ends. All that can be said for certain is that he believed that the sundrop’s presence in Corona held the darkness at bay.”

Sighing softly, Rapunzel slumps against Cassandra’s water barrel. As she dips her fingers into it, watching the ripples eddy over the surface, she murmurs, “So if the sundrop was the only thing keeping this… dark power out of Corona…”

“But Varian said the rocks only sprouted up in the last few months,” Cassandra says. “King Frederic found the sundrop flower eighteen _years_ ago—wouldn’t its counterpart have turned up before now, if that’s really what the rocks are?”

“I do not know,” Xavier says mildly. Sparks fly as he lifts the breastplate out of the forge again and resumes his steady hammering. “Lord Demanitus believed that both the sundrop and the dark force existed in a delicate equilibrium that would have dire consequences if it were ever disturbed, but he destroyed or concealed much of his own research into the subject shortly before his death, in order to keep it out of the wrong hands. Few details survived. But I do know one thing more.”

“What is it?”

“According to legend,” Xavier says slowly, “Lord Demanitus discovered the true origin of the two powers. They were once a unified whole, but they were torn asunder by the wicked demon, Zhan Tiri.”

Cassandra stiffens. Rapunzel just cocks her head, looking puzzled. “Who?”

“Zhan Tiri. A powerful, evil spirit with whom Lord Demanitus battled many times throughout his life. In the end, Lord Demanitus banished him from this realm, beginning the Peaceful Era.” The corners of Xavier’s eyes crinkle as he grins at them both. “I will tell you that story another day, perhaps. For now, suffice it to say that it was Zhan Tiri who divided the light from the darkness, and Lord Demanitus believed that, though opposites, the sundrop and its counterpart yearned to someday reunite.”

“Woah.”

“What would happen if they did?” Cassandra asks.

Xavier shrugs. His hammer clangs down. “In his writings, Lord Demanitus refers to fantastic powers of creation or destruction, but if he knew the details he did not choose to write them down.”

For a moment there’s no sound but the regular beat of the hammer. Rapunzel swirls her fingers through the water, gnawing on her lower lip.

“…You keep mentioning Demanitus’s writings,” Cassandra says at length. “But I’ve always heard he left nothing behind. That he died destitute, and the family estate fell into ruins.”

“That is true.” A small smile sparks over his face. “But some of his research survives to this day. The Library of Celaeno boasts a few fragments of his notes, and other pieces are scattered across the continent.”

“You’ve read them?” Rapunzel asks.

“I am… familiar with some of their contents,” Xavier says. “Many scholars have sought to piece them back together over the years, and some of Lord Demanitus’s secrets are… not so secret anymore.” He winks. “I believe the Solveig counts many biographies of Lord Demanitus in its collection. The one by Gaétan Morcant is the most authoritative. If you want more information, I think you would do best to start there.”

## ❦

An ominous cloud trails them out of the smithy. Pascal paces on her shoulder, fretful, agitated by the bleak turn of Rapunzel’s mood; she strokes the bumpy scales of his spine until he quiets.

“Heavy stuff,” Cass mutters. “But listen, Raps—”

“Sunshine!”

Cass groans as Eugene’s greeting cuts over whatever she meant to say, and Rapunzel, startled, turns to answer him. It’s so rare to see him before ten o’clock in the morning that the sight of Eugene striding up Osiander Street, wide awake and arm-in-arm with another man is— more than a shock, it’s downright _bizarre._

“…Eugene?”

“Hey, Rapunzel. Cass… _an_ dra.” He looks sheepish. The bigger man beside him just grins. “Listen, Sunshine, I know you and me have… things we need to talk about, but first, uhm. There’s… someone I want you to meet.”

He gestures at his companion, who looks like he just stepped off the pages of _Tales of Flynnigan Rider:_ he’s a tall, handsome black man dressed much like Eugene had been when he first climbed into her tower, in well-fitted but careworn clothes. His trousers are so patched that the original fabric is impossible to identify, and the red jerkin peeking out from beneath his cloak is faded, fraying along the hem; but his smile has such a relaxed ease to it that she doubts he could be a thief like Eugene was. There’s no nervous, watchful energy in his eyes.

“Lance Strongbow, Your Highness,” the man says, his voice deep and smooth as he sweeps a theatrical bow. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Her lips twitch. Lance straightens up with a grin that suggests he doesn’t take himself or his grand courtly airs too seriously, and she says, “Just call me Rapunzel, please. Are you a… friend of Eugene’s?”

“Oh, we go way back,” Lance says with a rumbling laugh. Eugene rolls his eyes. “ _Way,_ way back. Grew up in the same orphanage.”

“Aw, that’s– sweet.”

“Yep. We were inseparable back in the day—Flynn Rider and Lance Strongbow, terrors of Vardaros! We ruled the streets! We owned the highways! We—”

“We were thieves together,” Eugene says flatly.

Lance shoots him an exasperated glance. “Of course it doesn’t sound great if you put it like _that._ ” But he tosses out a shrug and adds, “But– true. We were—” another sidelong glance “— _really good_ thieves.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing you want to admit around _her_ ,” Eugene says, pointing at Cass—who has her lips pressed together in a tight, white line, her eyebrows in danger of disappearing beneath her curls. “Her dad’s the Commander, and also she hates me.”

“You make it so easy, Fitzherbert.”

Chuckling, Lance says, “Well, I’m on the side of the law these days, uh…”

“Cass,” Rapunzel supplies.

“Cassandra,” Cass says at the same time. She sticks out a hand, which Lance shakes with gusto. “What brings you to Herzingen, Mr… Strongbow?”

“Well, after me and Eugene parted ways, I turned over a new leaf,” Lance says. His wink doesn’t soften Cass’s stony stare one bit. “Switched sides, became a thief-taker, rest is history. I’m here on business, and to catch up with an old friend.”

“I… see.”

Eugene sighs. “I got him set up at the Old Horn,” he says, “and, well, actually, Cass _…_ ”

“If you could show me to the nearest constabulary,” Lance cuts in, “I’ve got some information about a thief who’s gone to ground in the city.” He pats his satchel, which rustles encouragingly.

Cass looks to Rapunzel first, reluctance to leave Rapunzel alone with Eugene scribbled all over her face. Off Rapunzel’s nod, she sighs, shaking her curls out of her eyes, and mutters, “Sure. It’s this way. Fitzherbert—don’t do anything stupid.”

“Heh heh.” Eugene fires off a mocking salute as Cass leads Lance away, and then it’s just her and Eugene, alone in the empty street.

The rain drips down. Eugene fiddles with the damp edges of his cloak, and Rapunzel finds she doesn’t know quite what to say either. Her anger has congealed into a cold, sticky feeling clogging her throat.

“…Rapunzel…” Moving slowly, Eugene steps closer, takes her hands in his; his fingers light as he caresses her knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I am– so sorry, for what happened at the valediction. Not just for putting you on the spot, but… that… should have been your moment, Sunshine, and I made it all about me.” He squeezes her hands. The tarry muddle of feelings in her throat melts into a lump of tears. “I’m sorry.”

“I…” She pulls up one of his hands to kiss the knuckle of his thumb. “I could’ve handled it better than by storming away,” she says. It’s not an apology but it’s close; the closest she feels able to give. “But… hm—”

“In the grand scheme, I think running away when your boyfriend makes a mess of things is… a fair reaction,” Eugene says. He swipes his thumb gently over her cheek, brushing the mingled tears and droplets of rain away from her face.

“I _do_ want to marry you,” she whispers. “Someday. Just…”

“You’re not ready yet.”

“Yeah.”

He slips his hand free of hers, running his fingers through her hair with a small, wry smile that makes her heart flutter. “Okay,” he says. “That’s okay, Rapunzel. We’ll stay just like this and take things slow.”

“I’d like that.”

She leans her cheek into his palm, and all the pent-up distress of the past couple days breaks apart, flowing free like dirt carried away by a stream. Eugene gives her a little nudge and says, “You know, I feel like you and Cass have gotten up to an awful lot of stuff in the last two days. Care to fill me in?”

Laughing, Rapunzel tugs him up the street. “Oh, we just… hung out in her room for a while. She showed me her swords.”

“Cass _an_ dra has _swords?_ Who let _that_ disaster waiting to happen, happen?”

“Eugene.” It’s like some essential rightness has been restored to the world; she shakes his arm in mock reproof, beaming. Funny, how the acerbic dislike between her boyfriend and her lady-in-waiting is something she could _miss._ “Her dad gave them to her. And she whittles, too—oh! She made this little wooden Pascal that is the _cutest_ thing—after the real Pascal, of course.” She pauses to tickle the chameleon under the chin, crooning when he chirps. “And then, today…”

The burst of her good mood ebbs as she tells him everything—from Varian to Xavier—and Eugene’s expression grows solemn.

“—So,” she finishes, “We have _something_ to go on, at least, but it doesn’t sound… great.”

“Sure doesn’t.”

“If the black rocks are just a manifestation of this… dark power,” Rapunzel continues with a frown, “then maybe there’s been other signs before. Something… I don’t know. But _something_ must have happened in eighteen years, right?”

“Or maybe it just took this long for the rocks to get here. Xavier said the source is pretty far away, didn’t he?”

“…That’s true.” She worries at her lip. “I think I should ask my Dad about it. If anything happened…”

“He’d be the one to know. Sound reasoning.” Tapping his chin, Eugene adds, “Y’know, Sunshine, you might be stuck in Herzingen for the time being, but I’m not. Maybe I could go… poke around in this kid’s village? Check out the rocks myself, try to help him out?”

“You’d do that?”

“Of _course,_ Rapunzel. I want to help.”

Her heart lifts. She stops in the middle of the street to throw her arms around him. “I’d _really_ appreciate that, Eugene. And I’m sure Varian will, too.”

## ❦

She eyes Strongbow sidelong the whole way to the constabulary. The sword strapped to his hip is simple, unadorned; the parrying dagger hanging from the back of his belt likewise. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling tunelessly as they walk. He looks… normal. Not like a criminal.

“So this… thief of yours,” she mutters, once the whistling begins to grate on her nerves too much to continue her pointed silence.

“Schatz,” Strongbow says amiably. “Real… piece of work. Don’t think he ever found a line he wouldn’t cross. See, thief-taking’s not much like being a watchman—honestly half the time what it comes down to is stealing stuff back, so. You rub shoulders with a lotta lowlifes, get familiar with the… big fish in the pond. Schatz is one of those.”

“I know what thief-takers are like.”

“Uh-huh.” He grins. It’s probably meant to be charming. “I’ll admit the… unsavory reputation is sometimes deserved. But me? I’ve had enough close shaves with the wrong side of the law to last a lifetime. I play it clean. And fact is, I’ve been thinking of calling it quits altogether.”

“What, your lifetime?”

“Ha! Nah. I mean… find a profession with a bit less mortal peril. No thieving, no thief-taking, no…” Strongbow blows out a gusty sigh. “Maybe I’ll be a cook.”

“A… a cook?”

“Sure. I like food, like making food, and everyone’s gotta eat, so talk about job security, huh?”

Pursing her lips, Cassandra revises her estimate of his character up a few notches; friend of Fitzherbert’s or not, at least he has some semblance of a work ethic. Even if the idea of _wanting_ to spend his days cooped up in a hot, stuffy kitchen, making food for other people without so much as a thank you, is baffling.

“Huh.”

“First, though,” he groans, “I’ve gotta catch this guy before he fences the goods. I _think_ he’s headed for this antique dealer up in Equis who is… not picky about where his supply comes from. Can’t think why he’d come through Herzingen otherwise.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not a lot of jewelers in this city willing to buy stolen goods.”

 _Damn right there aren’t,_ Cassandra thinks, feeling smug. “So he’ll be on the ferry to Siglo this evening?”

This gets her an appreciative glance. “It’s what I’d do in his shoes. Lay low until tonight, catch the last barge out, shake the guy on my tail…”

“I can tell you right now you’re not going to get much help from the Watch,” she tells him. “Not on that short notice, anyway. They’re stretched thin as it is, and Dad’s not fond of thief-takers.”

“…Well that is…” Strongbow stifles a groan. “Not ideal.” As he rubs the back of his head, he casts her a shrewd look. “Don’t suppose you have an alternate suggestion, Miss Well-Informed-Daughter-Of-The-Commander?”

“Hmmm. Well…” She likes the sound of _well informed;_ and being asked for her opinion on something other than the minutia of Rapunzel’s schedule. “The last barge for Siglo leaves at five o’clock from the western docks, and _I_ just happen to know a guy who can… buy you a delay. We slip aboard—”

“Excuse me, _we?_ ”

“I can handle myself,” Cassandra says, tossing her head with a glower, _daring_ him to argue. He doesn’t. “So we slip aboard just before five, Feldspar delays the launch, we catch your crook. Easy.”

“Easy.” He shakes his head with a low chuckle. “Who’s Feldspar?”

“Friend of mine. Come on.” She nudges him toward the cobbler shop. This is– probably not the smartest idea she’s ever had, but if they can pull it off…

The first inklings of excitement quiver in her gut.

## ❦

“Dad?” Cautiously, Rapunzel peeks into the war room. She’s grown less nervous about interrupting her father in the last few months, but she knows these meetings are important, and the curious stares of the other men—Nigel, Commander Morgenstern, her uncles, the other noblemen who gather to advise her father—make her feel… awkward at best. “Could I talk to you for a minute? Um, privately?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Dad gets to his feet, nodding to his advisors, and places a hand on her shoulder as he guides her back into the corridor and gently shuts the door behind them. “What is it?”

“It’s about the sundrop,” Rapunzel says, and launches into the tale. Dad listens to all of it, looking grave, and when she finishes, he sighs.

“Thank you for coming to me with this, Rapunzel,” he murmurs, stroking his beard. “And I commend you for taking the initiative to investigate this boy’s claims for yourself. A queen must be proactive about any threat to her kingdom’s safety.” He smiles fondly, and Rapunzel beams, soaking in the praise. “As it happens, I was already aware of these… black rocks, and I believe you are correct. They are the darkness rising in opposition to the sundrop.”

“Wait. You _knew?_ ”

Dad squeezes her shoulder. “I did. One of the village elders in Herrfeld has been keeping me informed. He has some… prior experience with these black rocks, and I trust his judgment on the matter completely.”

“So you’re doing something about them?”

“Indeed.” He steps away, clasping his hands behind his back with another sigh. “They are incredibly dangerous, but Ludolf and the other rectors of the temple are working to find a solution; if these rocks are the shadows cast by this… other power, this great darkness, then we must look to the sun for our answer. In the meantime, sweetheart…”

For a moment he bows his head, eyes closed; when he opens them again, they seem paler than ever, a wintry blue-grey frozen with tiredness. “Please advise your friend to stay as far away from the black rocks as possible. This is a matter for adults to handle, not young boys.”

“The important thing is it’s being handled,” Rapunzel says, almost dizzy through the wash of her relief. Dad smiles, too. “Thank you, Dad—I’ll make sure Varian gets the message.”

“Good. You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

She hugs him tight, savoring the way his arms sink around her shoulders. He’s always _careful_ when he holds her, like he’s afraid she’ll shatter and disappear from him again, and though it makes her sad, there’s also something comforting in that feeling. “Have a good meeting, Dad. Want me to sit in?”

“No. No, Rapunzel, I think I’ll spare you the boredom this time.” He chuckles. “It’s tax season; we can save that lesson for next year.”

“Oho, well. Have fun without me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He gives her one last smile before stepping back into the war room, and Rapunzel, feeling lighter than she has all week, darts away to tell Eugene the good news.

_Dad’s taking care of it. Everything’s going to be fine._

## ❦

Ten minutes before the five o’clock barge is due to set sail, the wharf is abuzz with the last scramble of business before the sun sets and the darkness drives everyone but the night fishermen away from the docks. The sinking sun paints the calm waves in autumn shades; yellow and orange, a liquid echo of the flames crackling in the braziers above the docks.

Cassandra loiters by a stack of crates not far from where the barge to Siglo is moored, watching from the corner of her eye while Feldspar strolls up to its captain.

“Oh! Captain Lambert! Thank _heavens_ I caught you! I need to make a few corrections to your manifest—silly me—realized I forgot to list the clogs for His Majesty—”

Lambert drags a hand over his face. “Mr. Willipeg, it is. _Ten minutes._ Before we’re due to set sail—”

“Oh, oh, oh, no need to worry, won’t take a minute—”

Cassandra grins. Feldspar’s in top form today: sputtering, stumbling, jabbering his way through some nonsense about King Trevor and wooden clogs and shipment lists that sounds just convoluted enough to be true. It hadn’t taken much coaxing to get him on board with this plan. Anything for one last chance to fuss over his wares.

At last, Lambert throws up his hands in exasperation and snaps, “Fine! Come aboard, I’ll get the manifest—”

“Oh, thank you! You’re _too_ kind!”

Once they’re both on board, she turns and flashes a thumbs-up to Strongbow, who’s up on the wharf, giving good performance of admiring the sunset with Rapunzel and Fitzherbert. At her signal, he breaks away from them and strolls down to the dock.

_Showtime._

Schatz should already be aboard, stowed away among the cargo stacked high on the deck of the barge. While Feldspar keeps the captain occupied, she and Strongbow will slip aboard, flush the thief out of his hiding place, and take him down while Rapunzel and Fitzherbert keep watch from above—ready to call the guards if anything goes wrong.

_Nothing is going to go wrong._

Nerves dance in her stomach as she sidles out from the shelter of her crates, strides up the dock, and vaults onto the barge. No one shouts for her to stop—no one seems to notice her at all—and she releases the breath she’s been holding as she clambers silently onto the crates, clutching the hilt of her broadsword to keep it from rattling against the rough wood.

Ten minutes until the scheduled launch. Feldspar promised them another five on top of that—more if he can get Lambert chatting, but they all agreed not to count on it.

_Focus, Cassandra._

A quiet, three-note whistle sounds behind her. Strongbow made it aboard. She answers with a whistled signal of her own and, moving as quietly as she can, maneuvers over the crates until she sees the flash of Strongbow’s jerkin moving through the cramped maze of the cargo.

Keeping low and staying as quiet as she can, she follows him. Strongbow insisted on her taking the safer job—staying up top, giving him cover and watching his back while he searches the cargo itself.

She almost, _almost_ doesn’t see him.

It’s a tiny flicker of motion in the shadows behind Strongbow—a twitch no more than what a rat might cause as it scuttles after a crumb—but it draws her eye. She looks down just in time to see a scrawny man dressed all in nondescript grey lean out of the gap between two barrels, a crossbow in his hands.

Schatz takes aim, and Cassandra doesn’t think. She jumps off her crate and tackles the thief to the deck—he writhes out of her grip—they roll over each other in a flurry of frantic motion, the butt of his crossbow slamming into her cheek—a starburst of pain and then she’s pinned under him with a dagger against her throat and an ugly leer twisting the otherwise plain face looming over her.

“Well, well, well.” Schatz has a harsh, unpleasant, oily voice—like sizzling grease, and his breath smells like something died inside his mouth. “Hello, girlie. Strongbow’s got himself a _gck_ —”

She hooks a leg over his shoulder and _shoves_ him away, and in the same moment Strongbow’s boot crashes into the man’s face. He hits the deck and scrambles up again, but by then Cass is on her feet too, sword drawn and battle roaring in her blood.

Schatz pops his jaw, white-knuckling his knife for a moment; but the reality of two swords at his throat in quarters this close overrules the smoldering rage in his eyes. He tosses the knife down with a clatter and, sneering, tugs off his satchel. “All in here, _Strongbow,_ ” he hisses. “Come get it.”

“Open it yourself.”

“Slowly,” Cassandra adds.

“Oh, slo-owly.” His finger slips under the claps of the satchel.

Maybe it’s the triumphant glint in his eye—maybe it’s Strongbow’s wariness—maybe it’s just the watchman’s instinct her father’s always telling her about—but Cassandra _knows_ what’s going to happen the instant before it does.

There’s a _hiss_ and then a crackle and her eyes are shut when whatever Schatz has in his satchel goes off with a _BANG_ and a flash of light that blazes crimson through her eyelids. Strongbow shrieks, and Cassandra hurtles forward, snapping her eyes open just as Schatz turns to run.

She hits him square in the back. As they hit the deck for the second time, she slams the pommel of her broadsword into the side of his head, and a pained grunt bursts out of him.

“ _Stay down._ ”

Schatz wriggles, but Strongbow catches up with them then and it’s all over; he snaps a pair of shackles around the thief’s bony wrists and hauls the smaller man up by the scruff of his neck.

A huge grin spreads over Strongbow’s face. “You’re in for it now, man. You know who that is?” He jerks his thumb at Cassandra. “I don’t think the _Commander_ of the _King’s Watch’ll_ take kindly to you holding his daughter at knifepoint. Even if she did kick your butt right after.” Schatz squirms in his grip, muttering something too thick with fury to decipher.

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Sentencing is the King’s decision, meathead.”

“Details.” Strongbow bumps his fist into her shoulder as he scoops up the trapped satchel, Schatz’s knife and crossbow, and nudges the thief down the aisle. His eyes are still watering from the flash, but he looks in high spirits. “Go team?”

“…Sure. Go team.”

Stan and Pete are waiting for them at the dock, and hovering just behind them is an anxious-looking Rapunzel and a much calmer Fitzherbert, who cocks an eyebrow as they emerge from the cargo.

“Nice shiner, Cass _an_ dra.”

“Aw, you like it, Fitzherbert? I could give you one to match.”

“And mess with this perfection?” Eugene strikes a pose, complete with ridiculous pout, and Cassandra can’t work up more than a twinge of irritation. He’s much more tolerable after a good fight.

“Heh. Same old Eugene.” Strongbow hands their thief off to Stan and adds, “Say… what’s the royal policy on celebratory dinners at the pub?”

“That’ll be a definite _no,_ ” Cassandra says, even as Rapunzel perks up at the prospect. “We’re only getting away with _this_ because we all just—” she glares sternly around at all of them “— _happened_ to be here. What a crazy coincidence, right?”

Fitzherbert smirks, but he adds his voice to the mumbled chorus of _right_ s that follows. She smiles. “But. I think we could swing snacks in the palace kitchen.”

“Eh, works for me,” Strongbow says with an expansive shrug.

“We’ll get this guy into custody,” Stan cuts in, his mustache twitching with importance. “Recover any stolen goods he might be carrying and… make arrangements to return them to their rightful owners. I’ll be sure to tell Sir Peter how…” He coughs. “ _Lucky_ it was that you happened to be here, Cassandra.”

She grins. It’s nice to have support. “Thanks, Stan. Pete. Shall w— _oof!_ ”

Her ribs creak as Rapunzel squeezes her around the middle; until she wheezes and the Princess steps away, beaming.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Rapunzel says gravely, before turning to give Strongbow the same treatment.

_Princesses._

Cassandra rubs her side, bemused, but she can’t help the fond smile creeping onto her face. “So—snacks in the kitchen?”

“We could make cookies!” Rapunzel chirps.

As they begin the long walk back up to the palace, Rapunzel and Strongbow begin to quibble cheerfully over cookie recipes, and Cassandra sighs in quiet satisfaction. There’s no way her father can deny that she’s capable of guard work _now._

## ❦

When the Commander summons her to his office, Cassandra comes prepared with a plate of cookies fresh from the oven, courtesy of Rapunzel and Strongbow. Her father stares at them with something like amusement when she sets them down on his desk.

“Princess made them,” she says blandly. “They’re good.”

“Technically,” her father replies, his voice very dry even as he reaches out to take one, “I think this qualifies as a bribe.”

“Technically.”

Sighing, he bites into the cookie and leans back in his chair, chewing contemplatively. He doesn’t speak until he’s finished with it. “I know that you planned what happened at the wharf today.”

Cassandra tilts her head. Not a denial. Not an affirmation.

“It was reckless,” her father says. “And risky. You put the Princess and especially yourself in real danger, instead of leaving it for my men to handle. You then claimed it was all… happenstance.”

“Am I in trouble, Sir?”

A nerve in his jaw twitches. “You really _should_ be,” he mutters. “But. No.”

Cassandra grins.

“I don’t… _approve_ of any of this.” Her father frowns at her. “But… you did handle yourself well, and I am… proud of you, for that.” He pauses. “Don’t do it again.”

“I—” for an instant, she thinks of Rosalia Morcant, the burgeoning plot to steal the Journal and her determination to catch the Duchess red-handed, but she shoves that whisper of guilt away. “—I won’t, Dad.”

“Good.” He nods, absentmindedly reaching for another cookie. “Go put some ice on that eye.”

“I will.” She can’t seem to stop smiling.

“—And get some sleep tonight, Cassandra!”

Her father waves a cookie scoldingly after her, and she salutes her way out of his office. After she closes the door, she leans against it for just a minute, grinning at nothing.

What a _wonderful_ night.

## ❦

The countryside south of the River Nathair tinges gold with the death of summer—the trees bedecked in their fiery autumn robes, the sky bruised with thunder, the peasants in their fields—the pretty poet’s dream.

Sirin scoffs. A sulky wind blows down from the Pingoras as she crosses the river out of Artois, and the gilded idyll of the ripening year is browning into decay already; the long road into Socona wends its way past fields reaped down to bare soil and sticks, bedraggled by the sparse drizzles of the falling season. Prosaic at best.

She walks alone for more than an hour, until the road crests the summit of the first foothills and the sagging, dreary houses of the village reveal themselves: huddled in the cleft of a narrow valley in the shadows of the mountains. Clusters of encroaching aspens drape their boughs over the tired rooftops, as if to hide their decrepit state from judgmental eyes.

Mathan sits beside the road, crosslegged, his wrists dangling off his knees. The misty rain flecks his vest with speckles of a darker green; there is an aspen leaf caught among the loose wisps of his hair, yellow spotting into brown. Sirin plucks it free; it flickers between her stained, inky fingertips.

She says, “The rumors are true.”

“ _Ah._ ”

His eyes glitter as he rises, swatting mud from his trousers. They gaze down at Socona together for a moment in silence. The road curves halfway down the valley, unkempt and weedy, fraying before it reaches the first houses into a ramble of narrow footpaths worn through the undergrowth.

She sighs.

“How did you find the capital?” Mathan asks.

“Crowded.” Sirin taps his elbow, and he bobs along in her wake as she begins to pick her way down the slope. “As ever. Their valediction is… pretty enough, if—” her lip curls “—sentimental.”

“Tiresome.” Mathan dusts his fingertips against the aspen trunks as they slip between the trees, rubbing the white powder between his thumb and forefinger with mild interest. “Our… friends now believe we’ll have the book by Tároshdhan,” he murmurs.

“Oh?”

“They are anxious to know whether we are committed to this… new plan.”

“Tell them yes.” Their path angles them away from the village proper; deeper into the aspens, where the pale, slender trunks cluster more closely together. “Tároshdhan, hm?”

“Will we be ready by then?”

“So eager.” She sends him an amused glance over her shoulder as they slip into the heart of the grove. A small cottage crouches there, half consumed by blackberry thickets; moss crawls thick over the shingles. “It is… sooner than I anticipated, but with a month’s warning?” Her head tilts in consideration as she traces her fingertip over the cottage door; a spark of green leaps from her blackened nail to the old wood, and the thorny brambles relax away from the entrance. She smiles. “We will.”


	11. Chapter 10: A Song of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I know some of you are pretty hyped for Eugene's visit to Herrfeld / meeting Varian, and I realized that reading this chapter without knowing what's coming makes it seem like that's just getting skipped over, so I want to clarify beforehand that that isn't the case! :] We've hit the point where the narrative begins to split, and this is the first of several blocks of chapters that occur concurrently / will get posted in a not-strictly-linear order as we weave between different POVs. 10 and 11 focus on events in Herzingen, and 12 dives into what Varian gets up to in Herrfeld during roughly the same timeframe.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! As always, comments are very appreciated! ♥

###  **Chapter 10: A Song of Love**

The flotilla of dignitaries who came to Herzingen for the coronation trickle away one by one in the two weeks that follow, and the frenetic pace of the Festival ebbs back into normalcy.

Lance resolves to stay in the city, trusting to the King’s Watch to return his client’s valuables rather than make the monthlong journey back to Vinovia himself, and Fitzherbert leaves for Herrfeld and comes back a week later with reassurances that the black rocks are—though unsettling—well away from the village and not an immediate danger. Rapunzel’s pleas finally wear through the Commander’s reluctance, and he begrudgingly grants Fitzherbert the use of one of the guard horses; and Cassandra startles herself by not… _hating_ it, when he and Lance join her and Rapunzel on their twice-a-week rides.

And Rosalia Morcant’s next letter arrives on the First of Tárosh.

It happens when she splashes into her room after an aborted ride—a pleasant ramble along the beach that turned to hasty retreat when the thin drizzle of the day thickened into a real downpour. Cassandra shucks off her soaking tunic, and as she spreads it out in front of the hearth, there’s a harsh _hiss_ behind her.

Alarmed, she whips around. The empty air above her bed _unfolds_ into a thin ribbon of green light, which twines around itself like a serpent basking in the sun, flickering, frays into a shower of brilliant sparks; and what emerges is—

A… bird. A small glass _bird._

While she gapes, the bird soars over her pillow, dropping the letter it clutches between its silver talons, and alights on her bedpost with a flutter of translucent wings and the soft, chiming _clink_ of glass. Iridescence shimmers along its feathers.

“…Uh–”

It sweeps opens its shining wings, and as they beat down, the bird melts into a flash of fiery emerald light. Then it’s _gone,_ leaving nothing but the incongruously normal letter as proof she didn’t imagine the whole thing.

_What._

_What?!_

Shock freezes her for a moment; she stares at the empty spot above her bedpost, and then at the pale white rectangle of the envelope. The familiar, delicate paper and elegant script of the address.

Of all the ways to deliver a letter—

 _Stars._ Taking a deep breath, Cassandra kicks off her wet trousers and hurries to her wardrobe for a fresh set of clothes. Magic’s not common in Corona, but— Morcant’s casual references to her precious collection of spellbooks always suggested a certain ease; and using an enchanted bird to deliver _her_ letters halves the chance of their correspondence being intercepted and her clever little ploy ruined.

More ruined than it already is, anyway.

With a grim smile, she scoops up the envelope and tears it open, morbidly eager to find out what Morcant has to say _this_ time.

_Dear Cassandra,_

_Chaperoning a young princess and her suitor during a romantic holiday! Frankly, I don’t think there is enough good luck in the world to make that anything but a monumentally exasperating task. You have my best wishes, and my sympathies._

_By the time this letter arrives in your hands, I will have already departed for Herzingen. Thus, this being our final chance to make arrangements, I’m afraid I must take a more imperious tone than I like. Alas. I will meet you at half past four on the Ninth of Tárosh. As I recall from my past visits to the city, there is a rather pretty memorial to your Lost Princess situated directly to the north of the bridge—the small pavilion overlooking the water?—and as it is one of the only landmarks I know, I shall await you there. Look for the woman with the red rose._

_As for your rocks—how mysterious! By your description, I’m reminded a little of the so-called Jaws of Antares; the bulk of that city is built upon a large outcropping of a black, glasslike stone—volcanic in origin, I believe—which is said to produce a faint whistling sound in the nights. Perhaps only an effect of the wind blowing against the jagged ridges, perhaps more arcane in nature; there is a great deal of argument on this point._

_Quite a haunting sound, or so the folk of Antares say; when I had occasion to visit the city several years ago, however, I found it disappointingly quiet. Still—there may be something to the supernatural explanation—some denizens of the city_ _worship_ _the Jaws, after all. Then again—in Antares, people will worship_ _anything_ _, so I would not consider that definitive proof._

_I’m sorry I cannot be of more help._

_I remain yours,_

_Rosalia Morcant._

“Straight to the point, huh?” she mutters as she shoves this letter into her writing desk with its brethren. She’s grown accustomed enough to the Duchess’s lengthy prattle for such a perfunctory response to disappoint, a little; but perhaps Morcant, too, has wearied of this charade.

_Good._

Eight more days.

She’s ready.

## ❦

“ _Counter,_ Raps!”

With a flick of her waster, Cassandra locks hilts with the Princess, grasps her wrist, and twists the wooden blade out of her grip. _Too easy._ It clatters onto the flagstones; Rapunzel yelps.

“You’ve gotta either riposte, withdraw, or control the bind,” she continues, stepping away to watch with idle interest while Rapunzel massages her hand. “Otherwise I can do… that.”

“Tricky.” One last shake of her wrist, and Rapunzel stoops to retrieve her fallen waster with a rueful smile. Swings it once, twice, and then finds her stance. “One more time? I want to try that thrust again.”

Cassandra grins. “When you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Rapunzel’s brow creases. “Ready. You first?”

In answer, Cassandra lunges. _Cut from the outside_ —Rapunzel parries with steady ease, returns a thrust— _catch it,_ and Rapunzel’s already gone again, light as ever on her feet. “Better!”

 _Now cut_ —the wasters clash, rebound; the Princess darts forward, and Cassandra’s flurried ripostes drive her back. They exchange another handful of rapid blows before Cass slips through Rapunzel’s guard to land a sharp hit against her ribs.

“Ha!”

Panting, they break away. Rapunzel glows in the lantern-light, dancing from foot to foot like she’s still eager for more. “That felt good!”

“It _was_ good,” Cassandra says, to an even wider grin. “Try anticipating the parry a _little_ less if you’re not feinting, next time—you don’t want to pull a thrust that would’ve landed. But; better evasive than slow. And your ripostes are getting quicker. You done for the night?”

“Oh, you know me; I don’t know when to quit.” Beaming, she twirls her waster like a baton, and Cassandra chuckles as it spins itself straight out of her hand and clatters to the ground again. “On… second thought.”

“I’ll show you how to do that disarm tomorrow,” Cassandra says. There’s a yawn welling up in the back of her throat. “Couple others, too.”

Rapunzel hums her agreement. While she scrambles after her waster, Cassandra strolls to the lantern to take a swig from the skein of water they brought with them tonight. She wipes her mouth, tosses it to Rapunzel, and sighs in deep satisfaction. The Princess is only just edging past _mediocre,_ but this is still leagues better than training on her own.

The warmth lasts until they step out into the chilly tunnel, and Rapunzel says, “So-o-o, Cass, are you excited for the Day of Hearts?”

_No._

The dim lantern-light hides her stiffening spine and the sudden rictus of her smile. Cassandra unclenches her jaw by brute force. “It’s Unification Day. The ‘Day of Hearts’ thing just waters down—”

“I like the Day of Hearts better,” Rapunzel says, with a casual toss of her hair. “It sounds so much more romantic, you know?”

“Try sentimental.”

“Aw, come on, Cass.” If it were _anything_ else, that light, cajoling tone would probably coax a reluctant smile to her face; as it is, Cassandra keeps her gaze straight ahead. “I know you’re not exactly… touchy-feely—” she bumps her hip against Cassandra’s, and they both sway “—but even you can’t hate a celebration of _love,_ right?”

“It’s not—” She scowls. “It’s just… not really my thing, okay, Raps? What are _your_ plans with Eugene? I’m sure Mr. _Here Comes the Smolder_ ’s going all out for the occasion.”

Giggling, Rapunzel cries, “Don’t make fun of his smolder, he’s sensitive about it! —And we’re going to have a picnic for breakfast with these _amazing_ cupcakes—”

Cassandra nods along, only half-listening to the ramble until Rapunzel finishes, “—and at six we’re going to see Lance in _Our Country’s Peace!_ ”

“…Wait. What?”

“The… the play? It opens on—”

“Lance is in that?”

This gets her a flatly baffled look, which melts into a teasing smile. “It’s all he’s talked about all _week,_ Cass! The lead broke his ankle and had to drop out, and the understudy is having some sort of personal crisis, apparently; so the Players put out a call for last-minute replacements, Lance auditioned…”

She blinks. “Lance is playing _Herz der Sonne?!_ ”

“Yes!! Isn’t it exciting?”

“He _acts?_ ”

Profession with less mortal peril indeed. _Stars._ Come to think of it, she _does_ remember Lance chattering on about the play a few days ago, but she’d tuned it out—ignoring the festivities keeps her _sane,_ this time of year—and put him down as an enthusiast eager to watch the performance. Never in a thousand years would she have guessed he _is_ the performance.

“—in the orphanage,” Rapunzel is burbling happily. “Eugene says becoming a real actor used to be one of his dreams! And now he finally has the chance! Amazing, right?”

“It– yeah. _Huh._ ”

“Maybe you should go see him, too.” She fixes Cass with one of her high-noon grins and a wink that looks like something Fitzherbert taught her. “I bet he’d _really_ appreciate your support.”

The last thing she wants to do with her evening is spend it suffering through the maudlin dramatization of the Saporian conquest, and she feels a sudden, dizzy burst of gratitude for Rosalia Morcant. “Sorry, Raps, I can’t,” she says, trying not too sound too relieved. “I’ve got– uhm. Other… plans.”

“Ooh! Like what?”

“Like… plans.”

She realizes her mistake the instant Rapunzel gasps. “Like— _plans,_ plans?”

“N- no! Just… plans, you know.”

But the wild flourishes of Rapunzel’s imaginations have already careened out of control, and Cassandra can do nothing but sigh at the ebullient triumph spreading over the Princess’s face. “Cass, you have a _date?_ ”

“No! I d- _No!!_ ”

“Cass!” Rapunzel wriggles. _This is bad. This is very bad._ “Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I want you to know that I! am happy for you!! And whoever you have _plans_ with is a really lucky guy, and—”

“I don’t have plans _with_ anyone!” Cassandra shrills, loud enough to cut through all the enthusiasm. Rapunzel shuts up. “I’ve got my own plans, by myself, no _guy_ involved. Not _holiday_ plans, just— _me_ —plans. By. Myself.”

Skepticism crawls into Rapunzel’s expression. But she says, “O…kay. I get it, Cass. You don’t want to talk to me about it.”

“No, I _really_ don’t.”

“But I’m here when you’re ready.”

“Rapunzel—!” The last veneer of her calm shatters, and the word comes out almost a snarl. Cassandra sucks in a harsh breath, struggling to rein it back end. ”Just– _please_ drop it, okay? I’m not _seeing_ anyone.”

“…Oh.” There’s a quaver in Rapunzel’s voice that makes her want to wither up and die on the spot. “O- okay, Cass, I just thought…”

“It’s fine, just. Leave it. Alright?”

Rapunzel nods, looking glum. The rest of the walk out of the labyrinth passes in sullen, uncomfortable silence, and as soon as they emerge into the dusty undercroft, Rapunzel mumbles a goodnight and hurries off before Cassandra can stop her.

Then it’s silent. Cassandra crouches over the trapdoor for a moment, sliding her fingertips over the hidden seam in the flagstones.

She groans.

_Nice going, idiot._

## ❦

Morning dawns better, and worse. Better, because she wakes up gripped with an unfamiliar good cheer. If Fitzherbert can redeem himself after his disaster of a proposal, she can smooth over her quarrel with Rapunzel.

Worse, because after she squirms her way into one of the silky pastel abominations Queen Arianna provided her with after she accepted the lady-in-waiting position, she slinks out of her bedroom and finds Fitzherbert leaning against the wall outside, arms folded, uncharacteristically somber.

_Great._

“What do you _want._ ”

“Oh, good morning, Cassandra!” he chirps. “And go-oood _morning,_ Eugene!—that’s you. Or it would be you, if you weren’t so committed to the sourpuss stick-in-the-mud routine.”

“It’s not a _routine._ ”

Sighing, he says, “Look, Cass, I don’t like _you_ any more than you like me. And I know you think I’m just this shallow, self-centered, insensitive—but still witty and roguishly good-looking—”

“Get to the point.”

“—jerk,” he finishes, frowning at her, “but whatever else you think of me, I _do_ care about Rapunzel. And I know you two had some kind of fight yesterday—”

Cassandra scoffs. “ _That’s_ what this is about? Look, _Fitzherbert,_ I don’t need you of all people swanning in to scold me into apologizing for—”

“Just _listen,_ Cass!” He springs forward with an agility that says _thief_ louder than _useless pretty-boy,_ his hands falling onto her shoulders as she goes rigid. “I’m trying to— oh _please_ stop looking at me like that– you, wow, you really are _scary._ Yeesh.”

Palms up in mock surrender, he beats a hasty retreat, and Cassandra settles deeper into her glare.

“I am trying,” he says, sounding almost as frustrated as she is, “to– look. All I know is, Rapunzel cares about you for some reason that I _truly_ cannot fathom, but, she does, and she was upset last night because you two fought, and I just… want– to see if you’re okay. Alright? This isn’t— _scolding._ ” Huffing, he glides his fingers through his hair. “You know, you _really_ could stand to be a teeny, tiny bit less hostile.”

“You could stand to _butt out,_ ” Cassandra snaps. “I’m _fine._ I can handle this on my own.”

Fitzherbert sways out of her way as she shoves past him and storms up the corridor. She’s almost to the corner when he calls her name, softly.

 _Why_ she slows down, she can’t say. Maybe it’s just that she’s never heard him sound like that before; subdued, almost. Apologetic. Probably the voice he used to wheedle his way back into Rapunzel’s good graces. She stops, tilting her head to glower over her shoulder.

A couple long, easy strides brings him to her side again. “Look,” he says again. Cassandra lifts an eyebrow. “I… know we got off on the wrong foot. Several of the wrong feet. But. We… both care about Rapunzel, and I’ve been thinking lately we should… _try_ … to get along. That’s what this was about. Heh. Dumb, right? Should’ve done it the blunt and icy way. Truce?”

He sticks his hand out, his expression bland. Cassandra stares him down, waiting for the punchline, but none seems forthcoming.

“I’m still going to mock your stupid goatee,” she says evenly.

His lips quirk. “Long as I can still make fun of your _charming_ personality.”

“…Deal.”

“Deal.”

They shake on it. She notes with a bolt of petty satisfaction that all the luxurious spa days he’s crammed into the past few months haven’t softened the calluses out of his hands yet.

And when she turns up the corridor again and Fitzherbert settles into step with her, it’s… fine. Not the worst way to start the day after all.

“…So. Uh.” Fitzherbert clears his throat. “This fight you had…”

“Isn’t _any_ of your business.”

“Mmhm.” But he doesn’t seem keen to push; he just shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets, and Cassandra decides she could do worse than taking him at his word on the truce.

She sighs. “I’m not big on the whole ‘Day of Hearts’ thing.”

“ _What?!_ ” Gasping, Eugene clutches his hands to his heart and staggers with melodramatic aplomb. “ _You?_ Not into _romance?_ Well drop me in a barrel and float me down the river; I am just _shocked._ ”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Rapunzel’s excited; I said I had plans; she… got the wrong idea…”

“A _hah._ She thinks you’ve got a date.”

“…Mm.”

“When really your plans are more of the… duck-and-cover, try not to drown in pink hearts and glitter variety.”

“Right.”

“Say no more! I get it.” He sweeps his arm in a grand gesture that comes dangerously near whacking her in the face, and Cassandra stifles a groan as she bats his hand away. “To be honest, if you asked me a year ago? You and me _both._ This lovey-dovey stuff was never Flynn Rider’s kind of thing. Definitely an acquired taste.”

“Uh- _huh._ ”

“—Point is.” A movement like he’s thinking of putting his hand on her shoulder again but thinks better of it at the last minute; he tucks it behind his back instead. “I’ll distract Rapunzel if she starts getting all… you know… ‘so, my terrifyingly venomous best friend, when can we meet the lucky cobra man?’”

“ _Cobra man?_ ”

“Does he have nice fangs?”

“Shut _up._ ” She knocks his arm, not quite able to suppress the smirk twitching in the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure that’ll be a _big_ sacrifice for you,” she says, saccharine, “being the distraction.”

“I believe that’s what they call _noblesse oblige,_ Madam Demon—”

“You are so far from _noblesse_ that if you go any farther you’ll fall off the scale,” Cassandra remarks dryly. “Idiot.”

“Viper lady.”

“ _Pest._ ”

Eugene grins. To her complete surprise, she does too.

## ❦

The holiday situation eases into a kind of detente after that. Cassandra is half-convinced Rapunzel still thinks she’s hiding a boyfriend away somewhere— _ugh_ —but for a few days, Fitzherbert sticks to his word, gliding in with smarm and smolders whenever Rapunzel seems on the verge of resurrecting the matter.

Dress rehearsals keep Lance too busy to join their rides in the evenings, and Rapunzel takes to inviting him to the palace for lunch instead. Cassandra manages to avoid the first few, pleading lunch with her father to go over holiday security arrangements for Rapunzel, but that excuse only gets her so far; and two days before Unification Day, she lets Rapunzel drag her out to the gazebo on the eastern lawn to pick at a sandwich while Lance enthuses about all the _research_ he’s been doing.

“—funny thing is, it almost _lost_ Corona the war. The labyrinth was such a huge undertaking that there were no resources left to maintain his garrisons, so Shampanier’s army kept pushing further north! During the siege of Herzingen, Shampanier had him on the back foot—”

“No kidding,” Cassandra mutters into her sandwich.

“—and some scholars—” Lance raises one finger and adopts a cheerily pompous tone that could put Rapunzel’s tutors to shame “—argue _that’s_ why he wrote the love letter in the first place! He didn’t _love_ Shampanier, but if he could persuade her to marry him, his own military incompetence wouldn’t force him to surrender!”

“That’s kind of cynical,” Rapunzel says, wrinkling her nose. “Don’t you think?”

“It was a _war,_ Raps—”

“Yeah, that’s what Mr. Cartwright said,” Lance says dejectedly. “It’s the year of the Princess’s return—” he toasts Rapunzel with his own sandwich, winking “—people just want a nice patriotic love story, no subversive reinterpretations, blah blah _blah._ So; _my_ Herz der Sonne is a true romantic. He falls in love with Shampanier’s strength, her cleverness, and most of all—her heart. He sees how she values her soldiers, refusing to leave even a single one to die, and he falls desperately, hopelessly in love.”

Grimacing, Cassandra watches Rapunzel’s eyes go misty while she cuddles into Eugene’s side, clasping their hands together. “That’s _so_ romantic. Don’t you think so, Cass?”

_No!_

But she bites her tongue. For all her curiosity and her interest in the world, Rapunzel has never bothered much with the granular details of history; and Master Vernors has been pleased enough to gloss over the less flattering chapters without so much as a backward glance. If Rapunzel likes the pretty fairytale of the _Day of Hearts,_ who is she to argue?

“If you’re into that kind of thing, I guess.” The scraps of the sandwich she forced down harden like rocks in her stomach; it’s stupid and childish and petty, but she drops the rest and jerks herself to her feet. “I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Cass, what—”

Her shoulders hunch as she stalks away from the gazebo. The pristine lawn’s going patchy, fading to the withered brown of autumn and somehow even starker against the unchanged white walls. Beyond the gates, holiday decorations are already strung up _everywhere_ ; pink sashes smother the street-lamps, garlands of paper hearts—pink and white, purple, _never red_ —dangle in window panes, from door-frames, truss the frames of carts rolling past and flutter in the brisk breeze blowing up from the sea.

She kicks at a muddy puddle left over from yesterday’s rain as she weaves through the threadbare crowd, away from the gates and into one of the small parks tucked away between the grand houses that crowd the palace walls; where the dominant colors are fire and mud, autumn leaves drowning out all the pink.

Grunting, she flops onto one of the stone benches lining the park—and jolts a second later when someone sits down next to her.

_Lance._

He crosses one leg jauntily over the other, humming under his breath as he studies the shedding trees. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to take the hint of her flat stare and wander away on his own, Cassandra snaps, “I’m really not in the mood to—”

“I may be off base here,” Lance says, “and I’m sorry if this is out of line, but… I wound up in southern Corona a lot, thief-taking. Lotta thieves hole up in Alcorsīa, see, no one asks too many questions there; it’s that kind of city. So… I’ve known plenty of Saporians.” He does her the kindness of ignoring her wince. “I know what they think of Unification Day down south, and… I… also can’t help but notice that you look a bit, well—”

“Like… them.”

“Right.”

Scowling, she nudges her toes into the dead leaves piled against the bench. “Yeah. …Yeah. My parents… my… real. Parents. Were Saporian, _really_ Saporian, farmers in Socona Saporian. It’s– kind of a— I mean, it’s not something I _talk about._ ”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks.” Cassandra straightens out of her slouch, crosses her ankles together, and fixes her gaze on the wall across the park. Old bricks worn smooth by time, stained a variegated pattern of white and grey from dozens of careless white-washings. She sighs. “They were Separatists,” she murmurs. “When I was four, th- they poisoned their harvest and sold it… here, in Herzingen.”

Lance whistles softly.

“…Yeah, it. It was just as bad as you’re probably thinking.” The sky’s a pure, bright blue today like an echo of summer; cloudless. _Empty._ “Dad was just a sergeant then. He found me hiding when they came to arrest my parents; could’ve just dropped me off at the orphanage in Artois, but for… whatever reason, he brought me back to Herzingen with him instead. And a couple years later, he adopted me for real.” After the executions. After the furor settled. After— “Not as… awful a story as most orphans have, huh? I grew up in a palace and everything.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Guess not.” She picks at her skirt, smoothing out little wrinkles in the satin. “So… Unification Day. It’s… I don’t know.” _It isn’t for you. It isn’t for you. It isn’t—_ “It’s a reminder of– where I really came from. Hard to get into the romantic spirit of things with _that_ hanging over my head.”

“It’s tough. Yeah.”

Silence, then, undemanding and easy. They watch a few people wander by. A couple out walking with their chubby little girl lingers in the park; she toddles after the drifting leaves, her eyes huge and bright and her giggles bubbling over the rustling trees. Her parents lean into each other, wearing identical indulgent smiles.

“How about you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s your… tragic orphan story?”

“Oh. Not much to tell, honestly. I was a doorstep baby.” Off her blank look, he shrugs and elaborates, “Matron found me on the doorstep one morning. Blanket, name tag, nothing else. It… happened sometimes.”

“…You ever wonder about them? Your parents?”

“Sometimes. What kid doesn’t?” Lance sighs gustily, kicking out his legs. “I’m lucky, though. I never– some of the kids were _orphans,_ you know? Kids who had parents and lost them, and… bad as it was, growing up abandoned, at least…” A contemplative frown works its way onto his face. “Looking back? I figure mine were just too poor to take care of a baby. Pretty common in Vardaros.”

“That’s in Eldora, right?”

“Mhm. Down near the Marnese border. Great city, if you’ve got money; if you don’t… Eh. Well. That’s life.”

“Tell me about it.”

More silence. The parents coax their daughter out of the leaves and meander on; the trees shiver in a fresh turn of the breeze. After a moment, Lance says, “I’ll understand if you give _Our Country’s Peace_ a pass. Considering… everything.”

Cassandra nods, grateful for that in a way she can’t put to words, and lets herself sway when Lance bumps her shoulder with his fist.

“Wanna head back? Before poor Rapunzel worries her head _all_ the way off.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, we’d better.”

## ❦

On Unification Day, she wakes up to a sketch of herself arm-in-arm with Rapunzel slipped under her bedroom door. Pink and purple hearts pepper the background, and the words _You Are Loved!_ swirl above their heads in a loopy scrawl.

_Oh, no._

Dread wraps her in its cloying shroud as she trudges up to the tower to for a long day of chaperoning, hoping against hope that the frilly card is the only gesture of holiday cheer Rapunzel plans on unleashing.

Over breakfast, Rapunzel takes her arm and solemnly says, “Cassandra, I talked to Eugene, and I think I know what the problem is now.”

Cassandra stabs her fork into her eggs with enough force to rattle the plate. The sympathetic grimace Fitzherbert aims around the Princess’s shoulder does _not_ improve her mood. “There’s no problem, Raps.”

“You’ve been acting… upset… all week, of course there’s a problem! But it’s okay, Cass.” Rapunzel squeezes her wrist. “There is _nothing_ wrong with being single—”

_For heavens sake—_

“—and the Day of Hearts is a celebration of _all_ kinds of love, not just romantic! Love for families and _friends,_ too!”

Rapunzel offers her a sunny smile, and Cassandra means to protest. She _really_ does; but something about the hope and concern shining out of the Princess’s vivid green eyes makes the words die in her throat. _Nothing_ she says now will convince Rapunzel that she isn’t—what, _unhappy_ about the lack of a man in her life?

She sighs. “This is _really_ not necessary.”

“But it’s true!” Rapunzel crows, and that’s the end of it.

For the rest of the morning, she endures the endless battery of hand-painted cards. She tears Eugene out of a watercolor Rapunzel did of the three of them together, to splutters from him and an exasperated sigh from the Princess that feel like fair recompense for all the nonsense; she accepts the basket of pink, heart-shaped cookies Rapunzel baked with no more than a roll of her eyes. She swallows her complaints when Rapunzel weaves her a crown of pale pink flowers she finds in the market. She makes it through an hour of terrible amateur poetry that has Rapunzel listening, enthralled, by going over the procedure for cleaning plate armor in her head until Eugene mutters, “Ah, Sunshine? I’m starving.”

“Oh, right!” Beaming, Rapunzel bounces on her toes, pecks his cheek, and says, “Come on! Cass, I have something _special_ planned for lunch.”

“…Great.”

 _At least Eugene’s miserable too._ He trudges behind them as Rapunzel marches back up to the palace with Cassandra in tow, and though there isn’t a trace of distress on his face, he doesn’t look _happy,_ either.

Something _special,_ as it turns out, means a towering array of cakes, pastries, and baskets of fruit piled atop a small, checkered, _hideous_ pink blanket Rapunzel must have found in the market somewhere because Cassandra is positive Mrs. Crowley wouldn’t allow such an eyesore to take up residence in any of the palace storerooms. Lance is lounging in the grass, already digging into a sticky bun; Friedborg is there, her nose in a book, and Johanna and Faith, staring at all the food like they’re not _quite_ sure how they got here.

“See?” Rapunzel says, nudging her. “It’s a friend picnic! Because the love between friends is _just_ as important as the love between a couple.”

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose. “Rapunzel. _Please_ stop.”

“But, Cass—”

“No.” _Breathe._ Rapunzel doesn’t _get it_ , and she means well, and this is—no different from her overbearing overtures of friendship a few months ago. Patience, and calm, and riding it out until the Princess gets it out of her system— “Look, Raps, it’s… nice of you to be so concerned for me,” she says, slowly, carefully. “But it’s _not_ necessary, and it’s _not_ helpful, and it’s _not_ wanted. I need you to stop.”

An awkward silence so thick she could probably stab it falls over Rapunzel’s merry band of picnickers. Rapunzel herself just murmurs, “But, Cass, I just feel like…”

 _This is not about what_ you _feel!_ Cassandra wants to snarl. Her fingernails dig into her palms. She bites her lip.

“…there’s something you’re not saying,” Rapunzel says, “and it’s upsetting you, and I can _tell._ I just– you’re my friend, Cass, I want you to be happy.”

“I’m _fine!_ ” She shakes her wrist out of Rapunzel’s loose grip, forcing a smile. “I had things I wanted to do today, and I think you should _let me do them_ and spend some more time with Eugene. Don’t you think he feels, I don’t know, a little left out with you spending this _entire day_ obsessing over me?”

That’s not _fair_ and she knows it, and the way Rapunzel’s face crumples as she says it makes something in her heart twist—but not enough to sting an apology out of her. She folds her arms. “I’m going for a ride. _Alone._ You have fun without me, okay?”

Before Rapunzel can answer, Cassandra turns on her heel and strides away as fast as she can go without breaking into a jog, making a beeline for the stables. Not bothering with a saddle—half afraid Rapunzel will wander after her with another harebrained ploy to get her into the holiday spirit—Cassandra leads Fidella out of the stable and vaults up.

“Come on, girl. Just you and me.”

It’s a quick enough ride down through the (pink, _pink_ ) streets to the bridge, where she rolls her eyes at the pink streamers strangling the gatehouse and nudges Fidella into a trot.

She just… _needs_ to get out of Herzingen for a few hours.

They follow the sea. Fidella canters along the sweep of the coastline south of the city. The track is smooth and broad, and Fidella’s huge, easy strides eat up the ground until Herzingen is nothing more than a white smear against the cloudy sky.

When her head feels clear, she pulls Fidella gently to a halt, closes her eyes, and takes a few deep gulps of the damp, salty air.

_Rapunzel doesn’t know._

_You haven’t told her you’re Saporian, or what Unification Day_ means _to Saporians. She doesn’t know._

It’s not fair, she reminds herself firmly, to fault Rapunzel for—what, failing to intuit what Cassandra’s problem is? To grasp without being told that every pink heart is a reminder of things Cass would rather forget—that sometimes she looks in the mirror and sees _outsider_ written all over her face and hears _it’s not for you_ ringing in her ears and feels like she’s drowning in all the ways she just doesn’t _fit_ —

Rapunzel belongs in Corona.

The sun is sinking into late afternoon when she turns Fidella around and they settle into a brisk trot back the way they came. The shine of sunlight off the sea obscures the roll of the plain down to Herzingen.

_I could tell her._

She’s sure Rapunzel _would_ listen if Cassandra sat her down and went through the whole ugly tale; her Separatist parents and the sickness that swept Herzingen just three months before Gothel stole the Princess, the executions that followed, the shadows of her past.

But—

 _I shouldn’t_ have _to._ Bitterness soaks the thought. _I told her no. That should have been enough._

She told Lance.

_But he asked._

She prods at her own reluctance unhappily. It’s probably some sort of failing in her, as a lady-in-waiting or as a friend. Offering up her secrets would… help. It would lay the whole problem to rest, and it’s not—

It’s—

Cass worries at her lip. “She’d… try to fix it,” she mutters. Fidella’s ears flick backward to catch the sound of her voice, then forward again. “Wouldn’t she, girl? That’s how Rapunzel is.”

_Stars._

She can imagine what Rapunzel’s efforts to fix the Saporian problem might look like, and it makes her want to curl up in a deep, dark hole somewhere and never show her face in Corona again. It’s one thing to carry what her parents did with her, unspoken and politely ignored. Another to endure the spectacle Rapunzel would make of _helping._

A grimace twists over her mouth.

 _And it’s mine, too. It’s_ mine, _and I don’t want to share it to make her stop. It—should just be_ my _choice, to share._

Right.

## ❦

The memorial to the Lost Princess curves out of the northern flank of the bridge to the mainland. By half past four, the sun is nothing but a dull red ember shimmering against the horizon, and the delicate mosaics inside the memorial gleam in the light of a dozen candles.

Nerves simmer in her gut as she approaches it. Fidella brought her back to Herzingen at four, and Cassandra hadn’t had time to do more than give the mare a hasty rub down, change into a plainer dress, and wolf down an apple to quell the rumbling of her stomach before making her… date… with Rosalia Morcant.

Morcant is already there, slouching against a pillar with her back to the entrance, gazing out to sea. One pale hand rests on the stone balustrade, trapping a single crimson rose against the pale granite.

“Some view, mm?”

She turns as Cassandra steps inside, and the last whispers of twilight catch her face; her heavy-lidded eyes dark and glittering in the candlelight. There’s a _sharpness_ to her grin, something pointed and unpleasant and _smug_ in the rakish slash of her lips.

 _Punchable,_ Cassandra decides. It’s like staring down a fox.

“Better in daylight.”

Morcant laughs. “Such a _Coronan_ thing to say. Cassandra Morgenstern, I assume?” Her lashes flutter as she offers her hand, and when Cass steps forward to close the distance and take it, the foxlike smile widens. “It’s so lovely to meet you… _properly._ ”

Her hands are callused, and she clasps Cassandra’s with the sturdy grip that only comes from a life of hard physical work; and when Cassandra forces a smile in pitiful reflection of that cat-who-ate-the-canary grin she feels the dawning realization like a dagger slipped between her ribs.

This woman is _not_ Rosalia Morcant.

 _Then who,_ Cassandra thinks as her hand slips free, her mouth dry; reeling from the shock of her own _stupidity_ in not seeing this coming— _the hell_ is _she?_


	12. Chapter 11: The Shadows Offend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Surprise!
> 
> Today (July 7) is my birthday! So you get this chapter early. :D
> 
> If (big if) I get it finished up to my satisfaction in time, I’ll post chapter 12 this weekend; otherwise (more likely) it’ll go up on the 17th.

###  **Chapter 11: The Shadows Offend**

_Stay calm._

The imposter turns the rose between her fingertips, smirking. Cassandra feels her heart slam itself against the cage of her ribs in one single, sickening beat before the seconds congeal and her mind lurches out of its lumbering surprise.

_This doesn’t change anything. She still wants the Journal._

Everything in the letters matched what Cassandra knows about Rosalia Morcant, and the _real_ First Chancellor involved himself in the correspondence; whoever this woman is, she _must_ be here under their auspices. Of course the Duchess would send an agent in her stead, trusting her naive little unwitting pawn not to notice—

_Just play dumb._

Cassandra curtsies, never breaking eye contact; finds her tongue and says, “So you must be… Ornella. How are you finding Herzingen?”

‘Rosalia’ winks, and slides closer to link her arm with Cassandra’s. “I think you may have undersold the… sentimentality of the holiday,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s so very pink.”

“Must be a real change from Quintonia,” Cassandra says, flat, and the imposter chuckles. “Did you—”

_SPLASH._

‘Rosalia’ lifts an eyebrow, looking amused, as Cassandra shakes her arm free and darts to the end of the pavilion. Her fingers dig into the cold stone of the balustrade as she scans the churning sea a few feet below, searching for— _there!_ —

“Oh, dear,” the imposter drawls behind her. “Someone fell.”

Not just _someone._ The floundering shape in the water breaks the surface—

“Rapunzel!”

A wave batters against the rough stones of the retaining wall between the bridge and the memorial, and the Princess tumbles, sputtering, out of the surf. Cassandra shoulders ‘Rosalia’ out of the way, hurtling outside to pull Rapunzel to safety before the swirling currents can tear her out to sea.

“ _Raps_ — are you— what _happened?_ ”

Babble, frantic. Rapunzel is all sheepish smiles as Cassandra herds her into the warmth of the brazier, glaring daggers at Pete, who’s standing _uselessly_ at his post in front of the bridge—she takes off for _one afternoon_ and—

“Cass, I’m _fine,_ ” Rapunzel says through chattering teeth. “R-r-really.”

“What were you even _doing_ out here?”

Rapunzel flushes. An awkward little chuckle bubbles out of her as she smooths back the strands of hair plastered to her forehead, and ice trickles into Cassandra’s stomach. “Oh– well— y- you know, just out for a little… evening stroll…” She rallies out of her embarrassment, glancing from ‘Rosalia’ to Cass and back again with a sly, pleased grin. “Wh-what a coincidence running into you here, Cass, and… friend…? of Cass?”

Vivid interest shines in her eyes.

Cassandra drops her hands from Rapunzel’s shoulders, stiff with disbelief. This _cannot_ be happening—

Except it… is. As ‘Rosalia’ slinks closer and winds her arm around Cassandra’s again, she purrs, “Ornella Lynch, your Highness. I’m a… _friend…_ of Cassandra’s; just visiting for—”

“For the Day of Hearts!” Triumph radiates out of her smile undaunted by the wooden stare Cassandra offers her in return. “Cass! Why didn’t you _say_ you had plans with a friend? We could’ve—”

“Rapunzel—”

She can _see_ the gleam of enthusiasm taking root in Rapunzel’s mind, and that’s when she knows the battle is lost; no protest, no pleading gestures, no sullen silence will stop the Princess from stampeding ahead. Cassandra sags, helpless in the complete smoldering ruin of all her plans while ‘Rosalia’ strokes her wrist and smirks and Rapunzel babbles, “Oh! Maybe you two could join Eugene and I for _Our Country’s Peace_ later tonight, and then we could all have dinner afterwards; it would be like a- like a—is there a word for a date but with extra friends? an—”

“An outing,” the imposter supplies with vicious, sadistic glee. “ _I_ think that sounds like a marvelous idea. What do you say, Cassandra?”

_What did I ever do to deserve this?_

Cassandra looks miserably from Rapunzel’s shining, happy face, to ‘Rosalia’s’ wolfish grin, and sighs. “I… fine. But– Rapunzel—”

“Great!” Rapunzel bounces in place. “I should… go back to the palace and get cleaned up. But I’ll tell Eugene and we can all meet up in front of the theater in an hour?”

“Fine,” Cassandra mutters again, desolate.

With one last excited squeal and an exuberant wave, Rapunzel zips away, trailing wet footprints behind her up the street. Cassandra directs a mulish glare at Pete, who jolts to attention and, off a sharp jerk of her head, hurries off after the Princess.

A rather dazed silence sets in, then. The fire crackles.

“ _Well_ ,” ‘Rosalia’ says, with bright, breathy cheer. “She’s… vivacious.”

“She’s… the Princess.”

The rigid surprise of Rapunzel’s appearance decays and slides down her throat like bog muck; bubbling into a slow, smoldering swamp of fury. The cards, the painting, the frilly cookies, the flowers, the poetry, the picnic, the relentless _badgering._ And this.

_She followed me._

_That—_

Cassandra rips that thought in half and swallows a mouthful of air, harsh with the mingled smell of salt and woodsmoke; it burns in the back of her throat. Clarifying discomfort.

_Rapunzel grew up in a tower. Alone. Isolated. She blames herself for everything, so when something is wrong she thinks it’s her job to fix it. She’s trying to help. It isn’t—_

_She asked Eugene for space after his stupid proposal. Do I not deserve the same consideration? Do my feelings matter less than hers?_

_I told her to_ stop.

_And she still followed me._

A gentle brush of fingertips against her shoulder scatters the shadows of her thoughts; she blinks. ‘Rosalia’ studies her for a moment, her mouth still quirked with faint mirth but a glimmer of understanding in her dark eyes; she twists a loose curl of red hair around one finger and says, “I think a walk around would be the perfect thing to, ah, _fortify_ ourselves before the evening’s… entertainment. Care to show me around?”

Too numb to do anything but agree, Cassandra nods. She can’t summon more than a dull, fleeting annoyance when ‘Rosalia’ takes her arm again, and they set off along the darkening waterfront.

It’s less… awful than she expects, walking around the city with ‘Rosalia.’The imposter sticks to Cassandra’s side like a barnacle, gazing at the shops they pass with disdainful interest, lamplight glittering in her eyes. She lets Cassandra prod their conversation along without making any effort to steer it around to the Journal— _and why would she,_ Cassandra thinks bitterly, _when Our Country’s Peace will do it for her?_ —and the hour before they arrive in front of the theater passes faster than Cass would have liked.

Eugene and Rapunzel are already there when she and ‘Rosalia’ round the corner; and he takes one look at their interlinked arms and then bounces his eyebrows knowingly at Cass. Her cheeks flame.

_We’re not— it’s not like—_

But with the way the imposter has been clinging to her all evening, that seems to be the impression ‘Rosalia’ _wants_ to give—or maybe she thinks it’s funnier to watch Cassandra squirm—or imagines that her combination of blithely false charm and good looks have her flustered, softening her up for the con.

She scowls. Rapunzel burbles out a greeting, seeming oblivious to the flat, unhappy _hello_ Cassandra offers in response.

“We have a box all to ourselves,” Rapunzel says as she ushers them into the crowded lobby. It’s small and irradiated by the harsh yellow glare of too many lamps, the squashy benches lining the walls drenched in pink and purple drapery. Cassandra bites back a groan.

“Do _you_ know the play?” Rapunzel continues, leaning around Cassandra to beam at ‘Rosalia.’ “I found a copy of the script in the palace library the other day; it’s such a beautiful love story, I’ve never read anyth—”

“I’m a librarian, your Highness,” ‘Rosalia’ drawls. “I’m quite familiar with Dunst’s work, yes. Though I’ve always found him a _touch_ pastoral where history is concerned.” The permanent smirk curls a little sharper, and she strokes Cassandra’s wrist with her thumb, and with one more horrible flash of insight, Cass _knows._

_She’s Saporian._

Fresh horror pours down Cassandra’s spine. A second mistake compounding the first; this isn’t _just_ an imposter, this woman is probably a _Separatist,_ and Cassandra invited her here—lured her here _on purpose._ If the slightest thing goes wrong—

 _Nothing will go wrong. I’ll salvage this. I_ will.

Rapunzel chatters on, impervious to the deep pit of consequence yawning open at Cassandra’s feet and the mocking slant of ‘Rosalia’s’ lips. Cassandra bolts a glassy smile onto her face and glances sidelong at Eugene. _His_ expression has faltered into concern, or something close to it, and when she catches his eye, he cocks an eyebrow inquiringly.

With a minute shrug, Cassandra tilts her head at Rapunzel, the subtlest way she can think of to convey her painful lack of enthusiasm for this whole… _outing._ Eugene grimaces back in mute solidarity, and then says loudly, “So. Ornella, wasn’t it? Whereabouts are you from?”

“Lavuil,” the imposter says without missing a beat. “I’m the personal librarian to the Duchess of Quintonia.”

The absurdity of this situation strikes like a bolt of lightning, and Cassandra has to choke back a hysterical giggle; a Separatist pretending to be Rosalia Morcant pretending to be her librarian and she’s mired in the middle—

Eugene makes some pithy comment about the Quintonian countryside which elicits a twittering laugh from ‘Rosalia,’ and then he continues mildly, “And, eh, _how_ do you know our Cass, exactly?”

“Ah. Well, Her Grace is something of a bibliophile—”

“—gesundheit—”

“…meaning she’s a lover of books—”

“Oh-ho, yes, _bibliophile,_ of… course—”

“—and several months ago, she wrote to Cassandra’s father, asking for an opportunity to study the Journal of Herz der Sonne herself. It’s something of a… rite of passage, you know, for scholars with any interest in history. Of course—”

“Nobody’s allowed to read the Journal unless the King allows it,” Cassandra jumps in. She will _not_ let the charade fall apart now. “So, Dad asked me to send her a letter rejecting the request for security reasons, and, uh…”

“I wrote back, and we realized we had… rather a lot in common.” She grins, flashing her teeth to the overeager lamps, and Cassandra winces. “So our letters continued, and eventually Cassandra invited me to visit. It seemed apropos to do it on this Day of Hearts of yours, considering the circumstances of our first… meeting.”

“That’s _so_ sweet,” Rapunzel coos.

“A lot in common, you and _Cass,_ really?” He glances from her to ‘Rosalia,’ brows rising, and Cassandra sees the instant his concern dissolves into the beginnings of a snide remark on her cranky demeanor. She cuts him off before he can get there.

“The doors are opening. Let’s just– find our seats.”

## ❦

She’s seen productions of _Our Country’s Peace_ before. When the lamps shutter and the shadows smother the stilted small talk in their private box, Cassandra knows more or less what to expect.

Even so, as the curtain rises and Lance strides onto the stage, bedecked in a crimson uniform with a shining golden sun emblazoned over his heart, she sinks into her seat with a silent groan. _Nice patriotic love story indeed._

It’s going to be a _long_ couple of hours.

Longer, with ‘Rosalia’s’ hand resting on her arm through all of it and Rapunzel to her left, hanging on every word. Cassandra stares down at the stage, blood pounding past her ears, and tries to enjoy the performance—for Lance’s sake, if nothing else.

He delivers his opening monologue with a ferocity unlike the solemn grandeur of the Players’ usual Herz der Sonne; and when the cringing Captain Elgin slinks onto the stage to inform him that the Saporian army has taken Anbruch, urging der Sonne to cut his losses and flee to Eldora, enlist the forces of Corona’s oldest ally to flank Shampanier’s army from behind—

“ _Never!_ ” Lance booms. “My rival Shampanier is a noble commander, and I will not dishonor her with so ignoble a retreat. We will stand and fight as long as their is breath in our lungs and fire in our hearts. _That_ is the Coronan way!”

“But we stand no chance against Saporia’s might! At every turn they have bested our soldiers. Stand and fight? Sir, you propose to lead your own men to wanton slaughter—”

“ _Enough._ We have the tunnels, good captain, and with stalwart cleverness we may yet snatch victory from the jaws of our defeat.” He claps his hand against the Captain’s shoulders, gesturing out into the stage lights. “Look you to the sun, my old friend, and recover your courage! We will stand, and we will fight, and when all is said and done, there will be a new dawn in Corona…”

The play dramatizes the final days of the War; how Herz der Sonne withdrew his troops from the blood-soaked plains of Anbruch and braced for siege in the capital of Herzingen; a courageous, defiant last stand that may yet have turned the tide of the war in Corona’s favor had not cowardly Elgin, unable to withstand the rigors of the siege, slipped away in the night to lead General Shampanier and her elite battalion through the tunnels and into the very heart of the city.

Betrayed, der Sonne’s soldiers scrambled to defend the palace, the last bastion of Corona’s broken strength, and the streets of Herzingen burned with innocent blood. But as Shampanier advanced on the palace, der Sonne strode forth to challenge her to single combat; a final duel to decide forever the fate of Corona, sparing the lives of their soldiers.

Proud Shampanier agreed, and so well-matched were she and der Sonne that their battle lasted for hours; all the while, with every traded blow, der Sonne professed his love, poured out his heart and extolled her strength, her nobility, her cleverness, her compassion. In the end, when he lay disarmed and bleeding in the palace courtyard, Shampanier lay her blade against his exposed neck and confessed that she, too, had fallen in love over the course of their many battles.

In the last moment of the first act, she casts her sword aside and helps der Sonne to his feet, and the two share a kiss before their shocked armies as the curtain falls and the shuttered lamps rattle open again, pouring light over the audience.

Cassandra rolls her neck, grunting as the vertebrae pop. Rapunzel is nestled against Eugene’s side, their hands clasped together in her lap, and she’s just set herself to endure an intermission of gushing about the grand romance when ‘Rosalia’ simpers, “It’s a pretty bit of fiction, isn’t it?”

Like a slap of icy rain against her face, she remembers that her _date_ is a Separatist liar who seems to take pleasure in her every wince of discomfort; her blood chills.

“Fiction?” Rapunzel’s brow furrows as she lifts her head from Eugene’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“It’s only a play, your Highness,” ‘Rosalia’ says, shrugging. She sits in her cushioned seat like a queen upon her throne, gazing over the side of the box with an imperious, bored expression. “Dunst is notorious for taking… artistic liberties in his history plays, and _Our Country’s Peace_ is, perhaps, the most egregious offender. Didn’t you know? The true history is… rather different.”

“Well, you’re the historian, lady,” Eugene says. He drapes an arm around Rapunzel’s shoulders, eyebrows soaring toward his hairline, and the air in the box seems to grow colder by several degrees. Cassandra hunches into her seat. _Oh no. Oh, this is bad._ “Why don’t you enlighten us?”

“How much,” ‘Rosalia’ drawls, “do you know about Saporia prior to the conquest?”

“ _Conquest?_ Corona and Saporia united—”

“Psh.” She waves that objection away with a sharp little smile while Cassandra watches in mute horror—heart thumping—wishing she could tackle the imposter to the ground and _stop_ this, _stop_ her from delivering a Separatist screed to _the Princess of Corona—_ but frozen in place by the sheer enormity of the impending disaster. “How much do you know of what Saporia was _before?_ ”

Silence.

‘Rosalia’ bares her teeth. “Saporia was never a land of kings or queens. They were ruled by a group called _Tháomazhatēm;_ a council composed of representatives from the three temples of the ternary.”

“The… what?”

“The Splendorous Temple, the Barrow-Makers, and the Thorn Syconium,” she continues, voice chiding now. “The cults of Char Malách, Cathay, and Zhan Tiri, respectively—”

“Wait.” Rapunzel jolts upright, eyes wide. “But Zhan Tiri is– an evil spirit, isn’t he?”

‘Rosalia’ tips her head to one side, fixing the Princess with a pitying look before she continues, “In the years preceding the war, the _Tháomazhatēm_ weathered numerous provocations from Corona and at last established a council of war, raising an army to defend the northern border from Coronan incursions. General Shampanier was an accomplished knight and cousin to Orlaīth Zampermin, one of the priestesses of Char Malách who sat on the _Tháomazhatēm,_ and she was granted command over the army by popular agreement.

“For the next six years, she marched the Saporian army ever-deeper into Coronan territory while Herz der Sonne, unprepared for the ferocity of the Saporian troops, led his soldiers from one defeat to the next. In time the _Tháomazhatēm_ grew… uncomfortable with Shampanier’s enthusiasm for war. They had intended not a conquest but a robust defense of the established borders; and the war bled too many resources away from domestic matters. They urged Shampanier to withdraw and prepared the terms for a ceasefire, certain that Herz der Sonne would accept a fair truce rather than see his kingdom wiped from the map.

“Shampanier refused. Defiant _,_ she returned to the frontlines and laid siege to Herzingen. Herz der Sonne professed his love on the day of the final battle, that much is true; and Shampanier, seeing that a union between herself and the Coronan king would serve her ambitions better than the _Tháomazhatēm,_ accepted his proposal.

“They married in secret, then combined their forces and marched on Saporia. Together they laid waste to the lands she once called home; they sacked the temples, slaughtered the populace, razed Charcāthēn to the ground, and murdered every priest they were able to capture in gruesome, public executions.”

“But that’s not what—”

“All of this,” ‘Rosalia’ says, raising her voice a little to cut over Rapunzel’s protest, “is documented, your Highness, in firsthand accounts written by those Saporians who survived the brutality and escaped to take refuge in the arms of sympathetic neighbors.” She tilts her head, examining her crimson fingernails with manufactured indifference. “With Saporia broken, der Sonne and Shampanier declared their victory; Coronan troops occupied Saporia for the next sixteen years, bringing it to heel under Coronan law. Many Saporians submitted in the end, weary of the slaughter and desperate for peace; but some, your Highness, did not.”

Gripping the arm of her chair, Cassandra hisses, “Thank you, _Ornella,_ for the history lesson—”

“ _Some_ Saporians swore revenge upon the traitorous Shampanier, and no sooner had der Sonne signed into law the annexation of Saporia than a movement for Saporian independence erupted. It has waxed and waned over the years, but it endures to this day. In fact, I believe there was a significant incident just a few months after your birth—”

“That’s _enough,_ ” Cassandra snarls. Everybody else in the box starts, and she clenches her teeth through an icy grin, wrapping her fingers around ‘Rosalia’s’ wrist and squeezing until she can feel bones creaking under her grip. The imposter smirks. “I think act two is about to start.”

The four of them sit in uncomfortable silence, waiting out the last few minutes of the intermission. Cassandra stares straight ahead, tracing the elaborate gilded swirls of the proscenium arch over and over again to distract herself from the sharp pounding in her temples.

 _Any_ doubt she may have had that ‘Rosalia’ doesn’t know _exactly_ who Cassandra is chars into ash and vanishes into the fiery cyclone of rage spinning in the back of her mind. She knows. The Separatists _know,_ and now they’re rubbing it in her face.

 _I hate her. I hate_ all _of_ _them._

_I’ll make them pay._

## ❦

The second act becomes a blur of motion and light; Cassandra knows it interweaves the drama of Shampanier’s wedding to Herz der Sonne with a sanitized rendition of Saporian surrender, but the only thing she can hear is ‘Rosalia’s’ speech reverberating in her head. When the curtain falls again and the players emerge for their bows, she brings her hands together in a single, heavy clap and then slouches into her seat, numb.

“We’re, um,” Rapunzel says, once the applause begins to die down. She grips Eugene’s hand like an anchor, eyeing ‘Rosalia’ with newfound wariness. “…Going to visit Lance. If… you want to…”

“You go on without us,” Cassandra mutters, pasting on a smile. “Tell him congratulations for me, okay?”

“Okay.” A glimmer of relief passes through Rapunzel’s eyes, igniting another spark of anger in her chest. _You didn’t enjoy this outing either? Good! Remember that next time you—_

“Take care,” the imposter croons; the pair hurries out of the box, and then she is alone with ‘Rosalia.’ Her imposter. Her _Separatist._

They watch the audience below fumbling their way out of the seats, streaming out through the theater doors in untidy lines. The red slash of ‘Rosalia’s’ smirk deepens.

_Let’s get this over with._

Quietly, drumming her fingers against the edge of the box, Cassandra says, “You know… Rosalia… if you _really_ want a closer look at the Journal…”

They’re too close. ‘Rosalia’s’ arm brushes against hers, her skirts rustling; she can smell a faint whiff of rosewater rising off the imposter’s skin, and her pulse rises with a disorienting tumble of fear and excitement and a wild, reckless feeling that should probably worry her more than it does; she almost doesn’t hear when ‘Rosalia’ murmurs, “Yes?”

She _does_ hear the pleased hitch in ‘Rosalia’s’ breath when she slips the key out of the pocket in her skirt. “Perks of being the Commander’s daughter,” Cassandra whispers. “Only thing is, we can’t get caught. My Dad would _kill_ me.”

“Oh,” the imposter purrs, “ _honey,_ I have no intention of getting caught.”

Cassandra closes her fist around the key. “Then let’s get out of here, huh?”

 _This… is stupid._ Her hand feels slippery with sweat as she clasps ‘Rosalia’s’ and leads the way out of the theater, into the wash of the cold autumn night where the brisk air feels like a gasp of clarity, soothing the fiery blaze of her anger. _This is so stupid._

But she keeps going, up through a series of winding alleys that keep them out of sight of the main roads until they reach the postern. She lost the plot at some point between catching Rapunzel _spying_ on them and the terrifying realization that she had a Separatist on her hands; and so she slips them into the palace, and then through the narrow, quiet corridors that don’t get used in the evenings, her heart beating a fast and nauseous tattoo against her ribs. If she can pull this off, if she can just make it all _worth_ it—

Up to the third floor where the Royal Archive resides, tucked away behind the vaulted ceiling of the throne room below. ‘Rosalia’ sheds the charming pomp she clung to all evening and matches Cassandra’s pace, silent, at ease in the harsh shadows and weak light of the gibbous moon falling through the windows.

She has a parrying dagger in her boot and a pair of shackles nestled in one of the pockets hidden in her dress, wrapped in scraps of muslin to prevent their clinking when she moves. Two more small daggers tucked into sheaths concealed in her bodice. Rosalia can’t be much better armed; some daggers, maybe a short sword arranged with care beneath her flowing black skirt.

_Separatists like poison._

The thought makes her shiver. Dad tries to shield her from this kind of thing, but she’s eavesdropped enough to have heard some of the details of what Separatist murders are like. Poisons that take days to kill, leaving their victim in screaming agony all the while; glass bottles packed with scrap nails and broken glass and filled with paraffin oil, set ablaze and tossed through constabulary windows down south. Charles Patton, garroted in the night and carved up like—

_Don’t._

She’ll just have to be careful and quick. Stay alert. Take ‘Rosalia’ down _fast_.

It’s always a _rush,_ fighting, and Cassandra’s gotten herself into plenty of real scrapes before—bruising her knuckles on the jaws of her classmates at the Sonnenhaus and spitting defiance at fresh-faced recruits who laughed at her, a _girl_ working the pell—and it _lights_ something inside her; sparking, a shock like lightning in her veins.

The dense, quiet darkness inside the Archive seems stranger and brighter than she remembers from the last time she was here. Like even the night holds its breath; the stacks keeping watch while they sidle toward the vault.

“This way,” she whispers. Her heart thumps. The teeth of the key bite her trembling fingers.

‘Rosalia’ doesn’t say anything as they weave through the last few shelves. Cassandra wonders what she’s thinking—whether she, like Cassandra, knows what’s about to happen—whether she’s seen through the fracturing facade or if she still thinks Cassandra’s just a silly, stupid, easy mark—

She isn’t sure anymore which option she prefers.

When they reach the locked door to the vault, her heart is in her mouth and her ears abuzz with ringing eagerness for the fight to come. Her hands quiver as she slides the key into the lock and turns it—slowly, _slowly,_ both of them tensing as the tumblers _click_ like thunder in the silent Archive—

But there is nobody to hear it besides them. She startles herself by grinning over her shoulder at the imposter, thoughts of caution guttering out before a gust of pure adrenaline. The haze of anxiety clears from her vision.

She pushes open the door. A whisper of oiled hinges and inside—stark as ice, a gloom shaved down by thin daggers of moonlight piercing the high, small windows. The Journal rests upon its large stone plinth, the crimson leather of the cover cast a deep, bruised purple in the shadows. Cassandra holds the door open for ‘Rosalia’ before slipping inside herself and letting the door close gently behind them.

“So that’s it,” the imposter murmurs. She saunters forward, paying not a bit of attention to Cassandra, mounting the step to the plinth and laying one hand against the stone as she leans over to examine the book. Her voice sounds different now, like a blade unsheathed. Empty of the slight, snobbish accent she affected before.

Gingerly, ‘Rosalia’ lifts the cover and rifles through the pages, slouching against the plinth, oblivious as Cassandra slips the dagger out of her boot.

Or maybe not oblivious; when she slinks forward and presses the tip of the blade into the small of ‘Rosalia’s’ back, the imposter doesn’t even flinch—though Cassandra can see her cheek lift as she smiles.

“Oh, come on, honey, don’t be like that.”

“Who are you really?”

‘Rosalia’ chuckles. “About time you asked.”

She _spins,_ viper-quick, hand lashing out to knock Cassandra’s wrist away; her foot lands in Cassandra’s stomach—Cassandra steps hard and comes back swinging as she regains her balance, but there’s a quiet _schwink_ of metal sliding over fabric and something dark and flat slashes at her face. She ducks out of the way and ‘Rosalia’ steps into a beam of moonlight, snapping the fan fully open; still smiling that smug, foxlike smile as she waves it lazily through the air, letting Cassandra see the glint of sharp steel at the end of each rib.

“Name’s Moira Caine,” she says, and _leaps._

This is not like scrapping with the sons of barons and dukes and it’s _nothing_ like sparring with the King’s Watch; Cassandra brings her dagger up just in time to knock the fan aside so it swipes past her cheek instead of gouging out an eye, and then Caine hits her and bowls them both over.

Her shoulder _thuds_ into the floor and they roll over and and over each other, grappling for her dagger until Caine slams her knee into Cassandra’s side and breaks them apart. Cass slides across the floor, gasping; her pulse surges and something in her gathers itself and _soars_ over the pain. Snarling, she throws herself up and tackles Caine away from the plinth again. They hit the floor and _this_ time the angle’s right for her to rip the fan out of Caine’s grasp and then bear down with a forearm against her throat; not hard enough to stop her breath but a _threat,_ unmistakable.

Caine grins up at her and goes still.

For a moment there’s just the sound of their panting, mingled in the cool, dusty air. Caine grips her arm with both hands, one around her wrist, the other at her elbow, but she doesn’t seem inclined to continue the fight. She just… smiles, and smiles, and finally says, “This is cute and all, honey, but I think we both know I’m walking out of here with that book.”

“How do you figure.”

Grunting, Caine shoves her off; Cassandra rolls into a crouch, ready to spring again, but Caine just sits up, resting her elbow on her knee in a relaxed, uncaring way that makes Cass want to _throttle_ her.

“Shackle me if you want,” Caine says, shrugging. “Drag me down to the Commander, toss me in a cell, I don’t care. But if you do—honey, I promise you I’ll sing like a damned songbird.”

“…What?”

This gets her a laugh, syrupy and unpleasant. “What’s that, _Commander?_ How does a simple pirate like myself get all the way into a secure vault in the Royal Archive without _anyone_ noticing? Oh, it was easy enough. Your daughter let me in.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t believe me?” Simpering, Caine reaches into her bodice and pulls out a roll of papers, which she waggles at Cassandra. “Here’s all her letters. We’ve been planning this heist for _mo-onths_ —”

“Give me _those!_ ”

She lunges forward, but Caine, snickering, rolls out of the way and shoves the letters back into her dress. “Maybe I’m wrong,” she says, in the same sickening sweet tone. “Maybe your Dad knew all about your little foray into espionage; but I’m calling your bluff, Cassandra. Either I walk out of here with the Journal, or I drag you down with me.”

Her teeth gleam in a taunting grin.

“I _didn’t_ help you with _anything,_ ” Cassandra snaps. “Dad trusts me; he’ll understand.”

_Don’t do it again._

Caine cups her cheek in one hand and gazes at Cassandra through half-lidded eyes, simpering again. “Who’re you trying to convince? Come _on,_ Cassandra, you and I both know that’s not true. You’re a _Sap_ —” she flicks the word out like a whipcrack, and smirks when Cassandra flinches “—just like me. People like us don’t get the benefit of the doubt.”

_But—_

But nothing. Caine studies her for a moment, then nods, gets to her feet, and retrieves her fan. She snaps it open and shut once, twice, before tucking it back into the folds of her skirt.

The worst thing is she’s not… wrong. The scenarios play over in her head, and Cassandra can’t find a way to make this look _good,_ not if Caine has the letters, not if it becomes Caine’s word against hers—either she looks like an accomplice to treason who got cold feet at the last second, or a useful idiot who let herself be hoodwinked by transparently false overtures of friendship, or she’s an arrogant, desperate, _reckless_ fool who tried to con a criminal without the Commander’s approval.

 _And that’s true,_ whispers a tiny voice in the back of her mind; the cold sigh of recrimination from beyond the banked rage. _You_ are _an arrogant, desperate, reckless fool._

She should turn Caine in anyway and bear the consequences. Kiss her hopes of ever joining the King’s Watch goodbye, sacrifice her father’s trust, hope to the stars she doesn’t end up sent to a convent or dumped on a prison barge or worse. It’s the right thing to do.

Caine’s watching her now, leaning languidly against the plinth, smirking still, and Cassandra doesn’t think she’s _ever_ hated anybody more than she hates Moira Caine.

_No. There’s one person I hate more._

“Fine,” she whispers. “Take it.”

In one smooth motion, Caine slides the book off the plinth. Cassandra grips fistfuls of her dress while Caine produces a large leather satchel from beneath her skirt and tucks the Journal inside; for one wild instant she considers rushing forward, sliding a dagger between Caine’s ribs but—she stays down, kneeling on the cold stones.

_Murder’s worse than treason._

_Isn’t it?_

“You know,” Caine says, quiet now, as she steps down from the plinth and gives Cassandra another sly glance. “I’m not a Separatist.”

Cassandra stares flatly at her.

“I’m a pirate,” Caine continues, “and the Separatists are paying me a _lot_ of money for this.” She gives the satchel a little shake. “But. There is… _one_ thing I want more than money, and it occurs to me that you just _might_ be able to get it for me.”

_Oh, stars, what now?!_

Caine snickers at the look on her face. “Oh, don’t worry—it’s nothing sinister. Just… a little information.”

Teeth gritted, she grinds out, “What do you _want._ ”

“One way or another, I _am_ taking the Journal tonight,” Caine says. Cassandra glares at her, sour. “But… the Separatists don’t _need_ it just yet. So here’s the deal; I’ll give you… let’s call it three days. If, in three days, you can find out what happened to Torin Caine—I’ll give it back.”

“…Excuse me?”

“My father,” Caine says. For the first time all evening, she isn’t smiling, and the last trace of smug satisfaction is gone from her voice; it falls flat, bled dry of any emotion. “Torin Caine. Sixteen years ago he stole a _loaf_ of _bread._ And the next day the King’s watchmen came to take him away—I watched them throw him into a cage like some— _animal,_ and drive off.” She pauses, expression gone hard. “It was the twenty-ninth of Azlohót. I never saw him again.”

“…I—”

“ _So._ ” Her chin lifts as she yanks herself back together, eyes glittering; a weak echo of their earlier malice. “His fate for the Journal, hm? Shouldn’t be too hard to find. One of the _perks_ of being the Commander’s daughter.”

The bitterness in her voice hits like the bolt from a crossbow; for a moment they stare at each other, Caine bristling defiance and Cassandra feeling sick for—reasons she doesn’t want to think about.

“I’ll try,” Cassandra whispers.

What else can she _say?_

Caine offers her a thin, humorless smile and slips out of the vault, leaving Cassandra alone in the suffocating quiet.

## ❦

Later, later, later, in the privacy of her room with the door bolted and the fire smoldering in the hearth, Cassandra peels off her dress and her stays and examines herself in the mirror. Fresh, reddish bruises mottle her shoulder—her stomach—her ribs. She prods at the darkening flesh, feeling for the sharp twang of pain that would indicate a fracture, but there’s nothing but the dull ache of a solid hit.

She’s… lucky. She tries to tell herself that she’s lucky.

Hindsight bares its fangs, breathing out shame and guilt and—

 _I shouldn’t have even answered the first letter. I should have told Dad when I realized something wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have engaged, not alone, not without permission. I should have paid more_ attention _and realized— I shouldn’t have arranged to meet her. I shouldn’t have brought her into the vault. I should have_ considered _that she might—_

 _Blackmail._ Sickening heat blisters her cheeks as she stalks to her wardrobe, leaving the dress crumpled before the mirror. She yanks a shirt over her head, kicks her way into a pair of trousers, and takes her broadsword down from the rack and buckles it onto her belt. Rakes her fingers through her hair, groaning as little sparks of pain burst along her scalp.

 _I am so, so_ _stupid._

Someone knocks at her door. For a second, her blood freezes in her veins—she expects the bark of her father’s voice, thick with anger and disappointment, the Journal’s theft discovered already and of course he _knows,_ everyone knows; but instead—

“Cass?”

Rapunzel.

The Princess.

Torrents of fresh guilt and shame collide with the still-smoldering heap of her rage; a flint striking steel. Clutching the hilt of her broadsword, Cassandra crosses the room in one stride, unbolts the door, and wrenches it open.

Whatever Rapunzel sees in her eyes makes the Princess _recoil_ and that feels– it feels _good._ Cassandra bares her teeth. “What do you _want?!_ ”

“C- Cass…?” Faltering, Rapunzel shuffles her bare feet over the flagstones. “I- I- it’s… um… time for our sword lessons?”

_You cannot be serious._

She _is_ serious, though she shrinks into herself as the seconds tick by and Cassandra just stares in blank, helpless fury. “No.”

“N- no?”

“No, Rapunzel,” she says. “I am _done._ Take it up with Dad if you want to keep learning. I’m _done._ No more lessons. No more acting like—I _tried_ to be your friend, _your Highness,_ but—”

“Cass, you _are_ my friend—”

“Well you’re not _mine!!_ ” Cass shouts. “I asked you, I _asked you_ again and _again_ to just _leave me alone_ and you _couldn’t even do that._ Friends don’t keep pushing and picking after being told to _fuck off._ Friends don’t try to ferret every last scrap of information out of their ‘friends’ because they just _feel_ like it. Friends don’t _spy on each other_ after being asked for just a little bit of _space._ Excuse me for having a life that doesn’t have anything to do with you! Excuse me for wanting one _single afternoon_ where I don’t have to cater to your every whim!”

“Cass, I—”

For once, the shine of tears in Rapunzel’s eyes doesn’t bother her, and it feels _wonderful._ Cassandra sucks in a deep breath and continues in a quieter, strained growl, “You don’t respect me. That’s _fine._ You’re the Princess. You get to treat me however the _fuck_ you want. But we are not friends. We were never friends, and I was _stupid_ to pretend otherwise. I’ll speak to you in the morning. Good- _bye._ ”

She straightens up and slams the door in Rapunzel’s face, throwing the bolt before Rapunzel can react. For a moment she stands there, reeling in the silence, air rushing in and out of her lungs. She feels dizzy.

Then the knocking begins, and Rapunzel’s pitiful cry of, “Cass? _Cass?!_ ”

Snarling under her breath, Cassandra hurls herself at the window. Open, as it always is, for Owl to come and go as he pleases.

Her room’s on the second floor, but that doesn’t matter. The palace stones are old and rough, with just enough variation to give ample holds to her hands and feet. She scrambles down, broadsword bouncing against her leg, and drops into the flowerbeds below with a grunt.

Gripping the hilt of her sword to hold it steady, she orients herself toward the postern and _runs._ Around the palace, into the lamplit streets. Runs and runs until the cobbles fall away and she hits the waterfront; panting, a stitch in her side throbbing where Caine kicked her.

A sob catches halfway up her throat. She vaults over the edge of the retaining wall and scrabbles down past the thick wooden pillars that hold the overhanging houses above the tideline, into the clutching shadows of the beach below. Her boots sink into the wet grey sand, squelching, and Cassandra presses her back against the damp wall, feeling the scrape of rough stone through the thin linen of her shirt.

_Just— just breathe._

The full magnitude of her mistakes pummels her all over again. She helped a _Separatist_ steal the _Journal of Herz der Sonne._ And then, as if she hadn’t already drawn _enough_ attention to herself, she screamed at the _Princess of Corona._ Even if Caine isn’t caught—even if she burns those letters and never breathes a word of Cassandra’s involvement—Cass will be a suspect.

The Saporian living in the palace. The Saporian with access to the Commander’s keys. The Saporian who just swore at the Princess and fled the palace grounds.

_Sun and moon and stars above._

She is so, so _stupid._

Cassandra clamps her hands over her face, muffling a scream against her palms.


	13. Chapter 12: Pale for Weariness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't quite hit my Friday goal, but hey! Here we go! The next chapter will go up on the 17th, as it's pretty much finished already, and after that it's back to our regular schedule. 
> 
> I mentioned in the note for Chapter 10, but just to reiterate for clarity, the events of this chapter cover roughly the same span of time as the previous two.

###  **Chapter 12: Pale for Weariness**

The rocks have grown since midsummer.

Jagged obsidian ridges carve up the clearing where they first broke the surface, and the trees have begun to ossify into darkness; the leafmold all crumbled away into dry, grey dirt, and the bulging bedrock underneath glints with the wintry reflection of starlight. The phantasmal moon-song keens, hollow and haunting.

Adira closes her eyes.

_Twenty-four years._

A quarter of a century gone since she heard it last.

 _Then,_ the earth groaned like a dying thing as she stood on the crumbling wharf and watched the last wave of refugees file onto the boats that would carry them to safety across the Silodeen Sea. Quakes the night before had shattered the grand houses that lined the docks, and thick clouds of dust still hung thick in the air; and the moon-song slunk through the haze, the forlorn dirge of a dying kingdom.

The taste of dust lingered in her mouth when they departed, but the echoes of the moon-song dwindled. As water lapped the hull and the boats carried them south to Bayangor, the strange music of Aphelion died, and silence settled in its place.

At the time, it felt comforting; a reassurance, that the desolation would not poison the seas, wouldn’t follow them to the balmy plains of their new home. A promise for rest.

Every day the absence cut a little deeper.

She taps along the smooth face of her talisman. The old, familiar patterns; the chill pulse beneath her fingertips. When the moon shone over her tent in Bayangor she had done the same, and felt a weak fluttering beneath the crystalline surface, but here, now, in this cradle of black rock, the talisman beats like a living heart.

Her thumb touches the thrice-pierced circle etched into the talisman’s face, and her brand throbs with the piercing sting of ice against flesh, and for a moment Adira hangs in the reverberant darkness.

It makes her _ache_ for home.

A soft chitter stirs the darkness, and she lets the talisman settle into her lap and puts out a hand for Ruddiger. The raccoon wriggles his head beneath her palm, churring contentment when she scratches him gently behind the ears. While Varian is away, he’s taken to trundling after her instead, nosing at her pockets in search of treats, clambering onto her shoulder when she doesn’t pay him enough attention, and making a general nuisance of himself.

“You’d get on well with Hector,” she murmurs, wry. “Little beast.” His ears twitch. “Come—the moon is rising, and we have work to do.”

## ❦

“…Hey, Dad?”

It’s late in the third day of the journey back from Herzingen, and the plodding rhythm of Prometheus’s walk has lulled him half to sleep; Varian slouches in the saddle, his face pillowed on Dad’s furry vest and his eyes lidded against the glaring afternoon sun. He feels the rumble of Dad’s _Yes, son?_ more than he hears it.

“When we get back home, can- can you… come with me? To see the rocks?”

Prometheus lurches to a stop. Varian, blinking, and winces as Dad stiffens. His jaw works, and he gazes across the last expanse of fields remaining between them and Herrfeld; a disappointed sigh hisses from his mouth.

“Varian—”

“ _Dad,_ please. It’s– it’s getting worse, and I know you only took me to Herzingen to get me _away_ from them but- I…”

The inescapable _humming_ lessened after he met Cass, as if the rocks approved of his– telling, asking, delivering the message— _crazy_ —and for the next few nights he enjoyed a deep and dreamless sleep. The itchy fog that has smothered his mind of late corroded and flaked away, and he felt clear and fresh and– and more like himself than he has in _months._

His thoughts had even turned to his abandoned plans for the water boilers, which have sat unfinished since he discovered the rocks.

_So, maybe—_

Even now he bucks rebellious against that thought, _but…_ They spent last night on a lumpy bed in the Snuggly Duckling, and the noise of a raucous card game downstairs kept him awake long into the night. When sleep came for him at last, it came slow and dense; settling in until his breath felt like wet sand in his lungs and he sank into a quiet blackness of hard ground and empty, gelid air.

When he looked up, he saw the stars.

They spangled the vicious sky like chips of ice, their bluish gleam a dying rattle crescendoing into the awful whine of the rocks; it trembled in his bones, a ringing, silent symphony, frozen and discordant, a hundred thousand lightless voices screaming in the still shadows of the night; and the ground shook apart beneath his feet.

He fell, he fell, he fell.

Now it’s in his ears again. Notes with the stings of wasps; little shocks of pain needle his scar.

_Maybe… maybe Dad was right._

“…Dad, I- I-I _need_ to know what you know,” he whispers. “What– _makes_ them so dangerous, what— Dad, I…”

Fear follows in the echo of the sound. Miserably, Varian knots his fingers into the thin fabric of his trousers. Adira told him a little about her history—how she and Dad were driven from their home by the rocks’ implacable growth, and how she devoted her life to searching for a means to stop them—but other than a stern remark on their volatile reactions to silver and taking _adequate precautions_ next time, nothing of their nature.

Nothing about what they’re _doing_ to him.

He should have listened– but—

“Son…”

Dad seems to be considering what he said for once, and Varian holds his breath while he waits for the decision. A few agonizing seconds crawl by; Prometheus snorts, stamping his leg, and Dad clicks his tongue to cue the donkey forward again.

“If I tell you,” he says at last, “I want you to stay away from them. I want your _word,_ Varian—and for you to mean it, this time.”

“I’ll… I’ll try.” Varian’s not sure he _can_ promise more than that. Dad doesn’t know about the sleepwalking incident—his stealthy return to bed hadn’t roused Dad from his slumber, and Varian saw no reason to mention it come morning—but he’s wary of it happening again. “I promise.”

It’s enough, it seems. Dad sighs, but he says, “Very well. Once we get home, I’ll– tell you the story.”

“Really?! Yes! Dad—thank you, _thank you_ —”

He throws his arms around Dad’s chest, burying his face in the matted fur of his vest as a shaky, relieved breath puffs out of his lungs. Whatever Dad has to say won’t protect him from the hum, from the intrusion of the rocks into his dreaming mind, but… It helps, somehow.

The hour or so remaining of the ride into the village passes in an agony of impatience. Prometheus never hurries for anything, least of all Varian vibrating with agitation on his back, and when the donkey _finally_ trudges into their tiny paddock Varian could almost shout from relief. He vaults off and lands with a splatter of damp soil, not caring about the half-amused, half-exasperated look Dad gives him.

“We take care of Prometheus before we talk, Varian.”

“Right, Dad, I know that—”

Still, he bounces from foot to foot, all restlessness while Dad piles the saddlebags into his arms and then turns to deal with the saddle. Stumbling in his haste, Varian ducks into the house to dump the bags in the entryway—he’ll unpack them later—and then jogs back outside to perch on the fence and wait for Dad to finish brushing every last little trace of sweat and dust out of Prometheus’s coat, then pick his hooves with uncommon meticulousness, then slowly slowly _slowly_ feed him a handful of honeyed oats before turning him out into the pasture.

“I know you didn’t unpack that quickly, Varian.”

“Da-a- _ad._ ”

Chuckling, Dad drops a hand onto his shoulder and steers him into the house at a glacial pace. “If something is worth doing, son, it’s worth doing _right._ Unpack the bags, put everything away, and then we can—”

He stops dead at the threshold; his face drawing into the tight, _focused_ lookVarian sometimes sees worn by the village cats when they’re sizing up sparrows.

“…Dad?”

“Someone’s in the house.” Dad’s eyes narrow to slits. He nudges Varian behind him; the hinges whisper as Dad pushes the door inward and steps inside, moving with a silent grace so unlike his usual lumber he seems like a different—

“Oh, there’s no need for that, Quirin.”

—and there, standing casual as anything with an expression of lofty amusement on her face, is Adira. Ruddiger’s draped around her shoulders, gnawing on a browning apple core; he chitters a happy greeting when he sees Varian, but doesn’t budge from his perch. Adira grins.

Dad stiffens, his grip on Varian’s shoulder tightening. “Adira.”

“Hello, Quirin. Varian.” She clasps her hands behind her back, one eyebrow lifting a fraction. “I think it’s time we all had a chat.”

“You are not welcome in my house.” Dad forces out every word through clenched teeth; like the grind of stone against stone.

She doesn’t even blink. “And yet, here I am. If you’re going to throw me out, Quirin, you’ll have to _throw me out_ —and I don’t think you want to fight me in front of your boy.”

Silence hardens, cold as ice. Varian glances between them, feeling—trepidation; it’s one thing to know, in the abstract, that they shared a past, a _life_ before the black rocks drove them away and apart, and another to _see_ it play out before him. Feel the layers of unspoken history and old animosity crackling in the air, and the implication that his _Dad_ —his gentle, awkward, soft-spoken Dad—would ever fight an armed warrior like Adira.

Then the tension snaps, and Dad mutters, “What do you want, Adira?”

“Just to talk. You’ve always known my theory; and, well. Now I’m sure of it and I want the chance to…” She pauses, lips pursed, and seems to consider her next words with great care. “Make… my case.” A nod, back toward the kitchen. “Shall we?”

## ❦

“They’re spreading west.” Adira spreads her map over the kitchen table, shifting absently out of Varian’s way when the boy leans past her elbow to look; with one finger, she traces the thin black lines marking the slow progress of the rocks toward Herzingen. Quirin, standing at the other end of the table with his arms folded, glowers into her smile. “And, as I suspected, the rocks that broke the surface south of here were following the Princess.”

“But—she didn’t come through Herrfeld,” Varian protests. His raccoon has relocated onto his shoulder, and he bats the striped brush of the tail out of his face as he frowns up at her.

“No.” Retracing the path the Princess took from her tower to the capital has been… _difficult,_ but the redheaded twins she liberated from their cells a few weeks ago proved as informative as she hoped. A jaunt through the tunnels beneath the Snuggly Duckling to the deep gorge where the Princess and their former partner in crime leapt into the river below, and from _there_ — “But she and Rider stopped to rest here.”

She indicates the small blue cross marking the point where the gorge smooths out and the Nathair begins its meandering loop into the plains; the twins led her straight to it, even showed her the loose circle of stones left over from the campfire.

“And the nexus of the rocks under Corona are _here,_ in the northern Pingoras.” This line is older, a faded red; the serpentine shaft of a mine carved deep into the mountains. Adira traced it years ago off an old map in the starveling village that once operated the mine. A relic from the time before the infestation rendered its tunnels impassible. “Just a few hundred miles east of—”

“Under Mount Ghisa!”

“…Yes.” Adira taps the dot marking the rocks south of Herrfeld with grim triumph. “Draw a direct line between those rocks and the Princess’s camp, and—”

“Lord Demanitus lived there!”

Ah.

Bright excitement shines in the boy’s eyes; he bounces on his toes, seeming to swell with the delight of whatever Coronan folk tale he’s preparing to unleash. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Quirin pinch the bridge of his nose; she clears her throat delicately. “I doubt he has any relevance to the current… situation. The silver mines beneath Mount Ghisa were in operation until about fifteen years ago, according to local records, until they were shut down by order of the King under circumstances I haven’t been able to confirm.”

Varian deflates. Adira offers him a smile she hopes is kind. “Oh. So…”

“If my suspicions are correct—” and they _always_ are “—the silver drew the rocks, and the rocks forced the closure.”

“Right. Makes, makes sense.” Varian tosses his overgrown bangs out of his face with a nervous jerk of his head, reaching up to scratch his jaw. The burnt scar, stark against his pale, pinched cheek.

 _Branded in silver, same as us._ She wonders if Quirin has realized yet.

“How _long_ have you been in Corona, Adira?” Quirin grunts.

“Long enough.” Shrugging, she flattens her hand against the map, studying the faint, careful red lines she’s filled in over the years; tracing the delicate veins of ore spreading out from the mines, miles beneath the surface. Thick webs under Socona. Ragged spirals encircling the ravine where the Gothel woman imprisoned the sundrop.

Adira never did figure out how the witch kept the rocks at bay. That mystery stayed her impulse to climb the tower and liberate the Princess herself for years; she kept _watching,_ desperate to unravel the secrets Gothel carried to her ashen grave.

 _Pity._ With a sigh, Adira continues, “Regardless, the rocks sense the Princess through the earth. When she and the thief camped for the night, a new vein of the rocks began to grow from the infested tunnels toward the campsite.”

“She’d never left the tower before,” Varian muses.

“Mm-hm.” She traces the path with her fingertip, due west from the mines. “I suspect she awoke and moved on before they could reach her, disrupting the trail, and the rocks surfaced here. A… waypoint, of a sort.”

Quirin’s face settles more into granite when she sneaks another glance.

“…Then,” Adira adds, frowning at him, “the Princess moved into Herzingen. Most of her time is spent indoors, of course, but not _all._ And the rocks—not just around Herrfeld, _all_ of them—” she splays her hand over the map; every vein of ore threaded in the depths of the Coronan bedrock, buried so deep that even with the aid of her talisman the moon-song is but an echo of a muffled whisper waxing ever so gradually stronger “—they are _all_ growing toward the capital now. I give it two or three months at the most before they find her.”

“What happens when they do?” Varian whispers. “Will- will the same thing that happened in Aphelion…?”

Quirin jolts; Adira ignores him. “Perhaps. But I doubt it will; the rocks _are_ seeking the sundrop—as I thought. They have some- _purpose_ that they did not in Aphelion.”

Legends of the sundrop, the warm and shining counterpart to the destructive power of the moonstone, don’t tell her what to expect when the two collide. But when two equal and opposite forces come together, what can they do but cancel one another out?

One loss of something grand and beautiful in exchange for the salvation of the whole world. A bitter bargain, but a worthwhile one.

“The magic of the sundrop will neutralize the black rocks. Stop them from spreading any further.”

“That is your _theory,_ ” Quirin snaps. “You are grasping at straws, Adira, as you _always_ have—you have no proof that the sundrop is that powerful, no proof that the moonstone won’t just extinguish—”

“Wait— _moonstone?_ ”

The boy’s question snags and snarls into tense silence. Adira breaks the stare first, glancing from Quirin’s dark, narrowed eyes and into the bewildered blue clarity of Varian’s; but it’s Quirin who actually answers.

“Sit down, Varian.” He sounds older than his years; wearier than she has ever heard him, and he pulls out a chair for himself and falls into it with all the grace of a sack of stones. “I did… promise to tell you.”

Varian sits. While Adira rolls up her map and settles into her own seat, Quirin rubs his hands over his face, groaning softly. “You’ve heard the story of the sundrop flower,” he mutters. “In… Aphelion, we told a… similar tale, but ours was about the moon.”

“So this moonstone’s like a- like another sundrop?”

Quirin tilts his head, conceding that, and lets his hands drop onto the rough tabletop. “Long ago,” he says, “a drop of moonlight fell from the heavens and hardened into a perfect opal. The moonstone. Many sought to claim the opal for themselves, enchanted by its great beauty and power, but all died in the attempt, for it belonged to no one. With every death, the opal spread its defenses further, until—in time—a fragile coexistence formed between it and the people of the surrounding lands.

“The kingdom of Aphelion was founded many thousands of years ago, and her kings and queens took care to maintain that delicate balance. Our forefathers protected the moonstone from outside disturbances and, in turn, it offered them its secrets. Over the millennia, Aphelion grew into a mighty nation.

“But it didn’t last. Centuries ago, the moonstone turned against us. The black rocks began to grow, and grow, and death followed in their wake. Our fertile soil withered into barren ash, and our crops died; our great cities turned brittle and grey. Sickness and famine decimated our people. The desolation chipped away at our civilization until we had nothing left and, in the end, after the death of Queen Liora, her husband, Prince-Regent Edmund, ordered an evacuation.”

Aftershocks of the old grief quaver across his face, and he lapses into silence. Adira eyes him for a moment, then picks up the thread of the tale herself. “Quirin and I belonged to an order of knights called the Brotherhood; we served as Queen Liora’s elite agents. After her death, the Prince-Regent bade us to oversee the evacuation—ensure everyone escaped to safety—and then gave us one other order.”

“To keep others away from the moonstone,” Quirin murmurs. “To do all we could to protect the world from its destruction. That means—” he sends Adira a severe glance, and in it she can almost see the echo of his old ferocity “—not meddling with the black rocks, and not sacrificing the sundrop for the _hope_ it will neutralize the threat. That is all you have, Adira. _Hope._ ”

“Hope is better than doing nothing,” she replies evenly.

His lips thin, but all he says is, “And that is– what… happened, Varian.” He massages the back of his hand, all weariness again; the mark on her own hand twinges. “I expect you to keep your end of our bargain.”

_What bargain?_

She looks sharply at Varian, who’s staring at the tabletop in abject unhappiness, one hand clamped over his scar. “Yes, sir.”

”And, Adira.” The legs of Quirin’s chair scrape harshly over the floor as he gets to his feet. “I know you’ve been working with Varian,” he says, flat. “It stops now. You’ve made your case, and my answer— _our_ answer—is still no. I do not want to see you around here again.” His thumb digs harder into the back of his branded hand, twisting the fabric of his glove. “Remember what happened the last time we came to blows.”

Swift anger stiffens her spine. _Remember_ —as if she could forget how his pernach felt when it landed in her gut, shredded her lamellar. The ragged scars from its barbed flanges still scrawl across her stomach.

“Dad—” Varian begins, looking alarmed.

“I’ll go, Quirin.” As she stands, she lets her gaze flick down to the scar bubbling across Varian’s cheek, pointed. If Quirin wants to work his fields and let the sun bleach every last drop of his courage, then— “I wish you the best, brother, in ignoring the problem until it goes away.”

“ _Out,_ ” Quirin snaps.

And out she goes, with a smile as grim as the one she wore the day she painted her hand in silver and vowed through the sizzling pain of her branding. No, Quirin _hasn’t_ realized yet; or else he thinks he can shatter the connection by brute denial.

_Hesitate, and hesitate, and hesitate until the battle’s lost!_

If three months of watching his son spiral in the clutch of an untethered bond hasn’t persuaded him of the need for urgent action, nothing will.

_A pity._

But she has grown accustomed, in these long and lonely years, to working alone.

## ❦

Flynn Rider never passed through villages like Herrfeld if he could help it. Small, close communities with nothing to steal and nowhere to hide ranked above prison but below miserable wilderness on his internal list of places worth gracing with his presence, and as Eugene trots into the village green—well, _brown_ —astride the flea-bitten grey loaned to him by the King’s Watch, he feels an odd bolt of pride.

A few months ago the relaxed, curious faces turning to note his arrival would’ve had him glancing over his shoulder and waiting for the tell-tale thunder of watchmen charging in to arrest the fugitive. Now, he waves and nods and exchanges good afternoons with the ones who mutter absent greetings as they pass. It makes for a pleasant change in pace.

He leaves the horse tied at the rail along the edge of the green and ambles down the main and, to all appearances, singular road of the village. Smaller tracks branch away and lead in meandering lines to clusters of squat wooden houses and barns; there’s a small market set up at one end of the green, watched over by a tavern on one end and a chapel on the other. It’s the kind of place where people _whistle_ while they walk, and smile at total strangers passing by.

A little asking around for Varian earns him a lot of chuckles and shaken heads and knowing glances and murmurs of _ah, that boy, eh?_ which add up to the impression that the kid has a knack for finding trouble. Trial and error gets him to the Kardossh residence, where he finds the kid in question sitting on the stoop, looking glum and feeding slices of apple to a raccoon.

“Uh,” Eugene says. “Hey there. Are you, uh… Varian?”

Not his most elegant introduction, but it gets the job done. Varian looks up—and then his eyes pop out of his head and the melancholy expression evaporates in a flash and, “You’re _Flynn Rider!_ ”

“What? No no, you’ve got the wrong—”

Even as the automatic denial tumbles out of his mouth, Varian scoops up the raccoon and bounces to his feet. “Oh-h-h, I am your _biggest_ fan!”

“…Qua–?”

“I used to see your wanted posters all the time you’re my _hero!_ ” Still juggling the raccoon, Varian seizes one of his hands and pumps it up and down all runaway enthusiasm while Eugene screeches out of wary defensiveness and into—

“Oh-ho, well, I think hero’s a bit much. Also, my name’s Eugene—”

“Well, _one_ of my heroes.” Varian skips back a step as the raccoon wriggles out of his grip and makes a bid for escape; the kid pushes his hair out of his eyes. “My other hero is Lord Demanitus because I am, heh- _heh,_ also a man of science, _alchemy_ specifically, but _you,_ oh, _boy,_ I’ve read every single book about you and—”

“ _Oh._ Ohhh. I see, I see what’s going on here. Ah, Varian– you are Varian, right?– I’m not the Flynn Rider in the _books._ I just used the _name_ —but hey, you know what? Always nice to meet another fan. Of… the books. Which are not about me.”

The babble doesn’t actually stop until he claps Varian on the shoulder; the kid blinks, and his face goes from startled to blank to a dull flush as he catches up with his ears. “Oh. _Oh,_ so you just—ah. Aha, it was just a pseudon– well. _This_ … is embarrassing.”

“My real name’s Eugene.” Helpful. “Fitzherbert. If it helps any, the wanted posters _were_ me, the real me, not the book… not-me. Though I guess I’m out of the thief business now so I should maybe not encourage this hero thing because Flynn Rider _was_ a thief but, don’t let me crush your dreams, kid; also, don’t steal, also, nice to be met. But I think we’re getting a little off-topic here so let me bring this back around to the _reason_ I’m here which is: Are you Varian?”

“Yeah,” Varian says. “Were you, uh, hn, what– ah– what d’ya need?”

“Well. I am a…” How even to characterize his relationship to Cass. “Friend. Of Cassandra’s. Or Cass. You remember Cass? She told us– Rapunzel, and I, that is— what you told her and now I’m here to tell you that King Frederic is looking into it. The black rocks, I mean.”

“Wh- really?”

“Yup.”

Eugene watches with interest while Varian’s face travels from perplexed shock to dazed joy and then crashes into something in the neighborhood of manic gratitude, and it still takes him by surprise when the kid punches the air and whoops.

“ _Yes!_ That’s amazing! Thats– oh, oh! I should get you my notes! That way you can give them to the King and he can get a fuller understanding of the science at work here and—”

 _This kid and Rapunzel would get along great,_ he thinks, wry, as Varian hustles him into the house, the very ordinary-looking house, and then down into the cellar, where every available inch of counter appears to be taken up by collections of bulbous glassware filled with… liquids, of assorted colors and consistencies and, Eugene can only assume, purposes. It smells like an apothecary had a baby with a tannery and then a rat crawled into the toxic fumes and died; he takes one breath and chokes.

“—now, magic,” Varian is saying when Eugene’s nose resigns itself to the dreadful stench of the lab and he regains his ability to focus on what the kid is saying, “isn’t really in my wheelhouse, but! By applying the principles of scientific investigation to the black rocks, I’ve been able to figure out some pre-tty important things about their structural and chemical makeup. No… hn, _exploitable_ weaknesses just yet but, we’ll get there, and in the meantime—”

It is apparent almost at once that Eugene is out of his depth here. The kid just—keeps _talking,_ sorting through pages of notes and diagrams and sketches of intricate geometric patterns Eugene can’t make heads nor tails of as he chatters on with the absentminded air of someone who assumes his audience understands what the hell he’s saying. Eugene just listens and nods when it seems like Varian’s pausing for a response until at last there’s a huge stack of notes piled in his arms, and Varian cocks his head and says, “Got all that?”

“I’ll… tell the King,” Eugene says weakly.

“Great!” A grin flashes across the kid’s face, but it collapses fast into the first echo of the morose expression he wore before Eugene interrupted his brooding and, sighing, Varian runs his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, though, I’m more worried about the… psychological… effects of the rocks.”

“The dreams?”

“Yeah, th- those. Something– something’s not adding up. My Dad—”

He pauses, rubbing at his scarred jaw as he scowls and gives Eugene a slow, sidelong, _evaluating_ kind of look. It sits strangely on his face; like he’s not used to guile.

“Hey, do you… wanna see them for yourself?”

“The rocks, you mean? I mean, yeah, honestly I was gonna ask—”

“Okay. Okay, great! I’ll show you—but, um, you’ve _got_ to keep it a secret. My Dad doesn’t want me messing with them.”

“…Uh–”

“Come on!”

This. This is not how Eugene expected today to go, but Varian’s already bolted out of the cellar, and Eugene doesn’t need telling twice to get out of the noxious alchemical fumes, so he jogs up the stairs after the kid.

And that is how, ten or fifteen minutes later, he ends up standing in a desolate black crater of stone in the middle of a forest with an excitable fourteen-year-old and the raccoon whose name he’s been informed is _Ruddiger._ By some miracle he managed to stuff all of Varian’s notes into his bag, and now the strap is digging into his shoulder and between that and the kid’s rambling efforts to explain his concerns about the rock nightmares he’s been having, Eugene is feeling distinctly _harried._

The rocks are… not like he imagined.

A cluster of them have twisted together in the center of the clearing, forming an amalgamated pillar like snakes twined together and together and together. Layers of black spikes bristle from its base and coagulate into sharp ridges that radiate out from the pillar in crooked, spidery lines; the rocks have grown into the trees, corrupting rough bark and withering leaves into glistening black stone. The normal quiet of the forest feels… wrong within the circle of rock. It’s a wary, watchful silence.

“Wait’ll you see _this,_ ” Varian crows.

“Kid, I’m not sure—”

“Put these on!” A pair of brass goggles comes sailing his way; Eugene fumbles them out of his air and, deciding it’s probably better safe than sorry because who knows what this kid will pull next, straps them awkwardly to his face. He watches with trepidation while Varian rummages around in a dilapidated crate that looks to be full of more creepy concoctions—then, with a triumphant sound, Varian emerges with a pair of absurdly _lengthy_ tongs and a vial of something silvery.

“What is that.”

“Silver!” Grinning, Varian trots back over, crouches beside him. “You’ve gotta see how these rocks react to— it’s _fascinating,_ I’ve never seen anything like it before—look look look—”

He shakes a few of the—silver, apparently—flakes into his palm, screws the vial shut again, and scoops up his tiny sample with the tongs.

“Yeah, quick question before you do… whatever it is you’re doing; is this… _dangerous?_ ”

“Nah, not really, just– you know— stand back.” With a quick, well-practiced motion, Varian tugs his own goggles down to cover his eyes, then reaches out with the tongs—rising onto his tiptoes—and without preamble sprinkles the silver flakes against the side of the central pillar.

The effect is instant.

As Varian yanks the tongs away, the glossy black surface of the rocks ripples like disturbed quicksand. There’s a soft, crooning _keen_ and then—

Liquescent tendrils lash straight out from the rock, splattering droplets that hiss and bubble where they land; while Eugene gapes, the shadowy whips carve vicious arcs through the air and then sink and bite into the hard grey earth, harden, and spindle into winding rows of tiny black needles.

The awful silence falls again.

“What in the hell was _that?_ ”

“That,” Varian says, with satisfaction that doesn’t quite hide the tremor in his voice, “is what happens when the rocks are exposed to silver. The liquid solidifies again within seconds, but while in that state it is… _extremely_ caustic.” He touches his thumb to his jaw, grimacing. “Learned that the hard way.”

“I see that.”

“I haven’t yet figured out what… chemical reaction produces the effect. Adira says it’s magic, but I say magic is just science we don’t understand yet, and I- am going to figure it out.” He releases a shaky breath. “Or at least– I don’t know. Sometimes—I feel like I don’t have a choice. Like, like I try to listen to my Dad when he says not… to come back here, but I- I hear, at night, the moon—I just. I _need_ to figure out, I _need_ …”

“…Wait, you mean, you think they’re– what, _controlling_ you, or something?”

“No! Yes? May…be. It’s not like I c-can’t, you know, _choose,_ but it’s… It’s been hard to think about anything else since I found them. I’m…” Working his jaw furiously, Varian pushes his goggles up his forehead again and, for a moment, just fidgets his fingers together, not looking at Eugene. “…I’m scared,” he mutters, “of what happens if I keep… going.”

_Oh, boy._

“…Hey.” Eugene grips his shoulder. Still disoriented but it’s clear what Varian needs now is an _adult,_ an anchor, and with no one else around it falls to… him, of all the unlikely candidates, to be that person. Maybe if he fakes it hard enough the kid will even buy it. “That sounds… pretty heavy to carry around all on your own. Have you talked about it with your parents?”

From the way Varian turtles up his shoulders at that, the answer is no.

“I… think you should. I mean, who knows, they might—”

“He,” Varian murmurs.

“Pardon?”

“H- he. It’s– it’s just me and my Dad.” The kid shuffles his feet, an almost-smile ghosting over his face when Ruddiger twines around his ankles, catlike. “Has… been for a while.”

“Oh. _Oh,_ Varian, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“Still.” He squeezes the kid’s shoulder, trying not to look as rattled by this as he feels, and adds, “But the point… stands. Maybe your Dad could help you. He might have some ideas you haven’t considered. A solution you wouldn’t think to try.”

“You think?”

“Sure. Isn’t that what parents are for?”

Like he’d know.

But if the small smile creeping onto Varian’s face is anything to judge by, it was the right thing to say. After a second or two, Varian nods and says, “You’re right. I’ll- I’ll tell him tonight. Thanks, uh— Mr… Fitz-”

“Call me Eugene, kid.” Soaring on the warm draft of success, he ruffles Varian’s hair and winks. “And let’s get out of here, yeah? This place gives me the creeps.”

“Right. Uhh– come on! I’ll show you the tunnels that lead back to my village. They’re pretty special and not… _as_ creepy.”

Of course there are tunnels. Shaking his head with wry amusement, Eugene strolls after the kid as he jogs out of the stone clearing with his raccoon at his heels.

The sun seems a little brighter, outside the circle of stones.

## ❦

_Xavier,_

_Rolcsza sisélte, my old friend! May this message find you hale and happy._

_I am writing to you concerning the matter of my son, whom I find to my surprise is growing up faster than my old soul can keep up. He will be fifteen in Sicáraen—can you believe?—and as boys his age are wont, he is growing restless with the trappings of childhood. A bittersweet time, eh?_

_As he was more than taken with your forge when we visited during the Festival, I floated the idea of his learning the blacksmith’s trade a few days ago. Varian seems keen on it, and so here we are—old friend, how would you feel about taking on an apprentice?_

_My son takes after his mother’s stature, but he’s stronger than he looks and he has the sharpest mind of anyone I know. He’s kept up the apothecary on his own since Miriam passed, he does his work around the farm reliably and without complaint, and he’s come a long way with that alchemy of his in his own time. Hard-working, is what I mean to say. If you take him on, you’ll find him a conscientious assistant and an attentive student. Of course, I would also pay room and board for him to live in Herzingen with you._

_What do you say?_

_Friendly regards,_

_Quirin Kardossh._

## ❦

_Quirin,_

_Zilgü rattélte gard! It is always a pleasure to hear from you._

_And ah, Quirin, how you speak of Varian as if I do not know his virtues! I am not like the folk of Herrfeld, old friend; my trade is fire and molten steel, and an explosion now and then in the name of scientific discovery does not frighten me. (Though, I would advise Varian to leave the most volatile materials at home, lest the King’s Watch raise charges of property damage. They are zealous about that in this city.)_

_I would be happy to train your son in my art. I think he will find the work rewarding, and I will be glad of the extra set of hands this winter, as I expect to have a great many orders to fill. There has been much trouble in the south of late, and the King’s Watch is being kept rather busy._

_I will prepare the spare room for him and await his arrival whenever you are ready to say goodbye._

_Warmest regards,_

_Xavier Besim._

## ❦

Safe in the great cabin of the Zampermin, Moira pours herself a glass of ázondh and toasts out the rose-tinted windows toward the glittering hulk of the island.

She smirks.

Months of planning, weeks of effort. Risk, always.

Moira’s run enough jailbreaks and heard stories enough to know Commander Morgenstern’s style. Careful, measured, with a liking for rules his predecessor had lacked. The first dozen or so requests she sent in Rose’s name went unanswered, and she had been on the brink of an irate change in tactics when his daughter sent a refusal back.

And _oh._

How _everything_ fell into place after that.

Oh, there was always the danger that Cassandra might be participating in their little charade under her father’s auspices, but that just made it _fun._

For a while she’d doubted whether Cassandra _knew_ —where she came from, who she _is_ —so she came to Herzingen armed with the story she hadn’t, in the end, needed to use. Why bother when Princess Rapunzel handed her Cassandra gift-wrapped on a silver platter?

_Our Country’s Peace! I should send a note of thanks._

Snickering, Moira slouches into her desk, swirling her drink with a slow roll of her wrist. The vermillion liquor all but glows in the soft lamplight, and when she sips it leaves her tongue tingling with the bittersweet aftertaste, the velvet scrape of alcohol down the back of her throat. She bares her teeth, sets the glass down, and gently works the Journal of Herz der Sonne free from her satchel.

The book settles onto the desk with a quiet _thump._ She traces the embossed outline of the Coronan sun with her fingertips, smug.

She spent the better part of the night hiking out of the city. They moored in one of the little auxiliary ports on the mainland, where Herzingen had overspilled its bounds and splattered its urban fringes up the coast; not far south from the bridge, but she took her sweet time and a nice winding ramble back to her ship.

Not that Morgenstern’s watchmen followed her, of course. Not that Moira _expected_ a tail, really, after the way Cassandra’s expression pinched and then slammed shut after the reminder that—Commander’s daughter or no—everything she has depends on her dancing to Corona’s exacting tune.

_Don’t like thinking about it, do you, honey? But you can’t afford to forget._

It had been a good try. Sneaky. Old-fashioned. The kind of sting common as dirt in Commander Faramond’s day, the kind that got Moira her first beating when she was a lot younger and stupid enough to fall for watchman tricks. And she can’t fault the poor woman the attempt to do _something_ besides getting yanked around by the Princess all day, every day.

Taking another sip of ázondh, Moira flips open the Journal. Rifles through the old, thin pages with disdain, skimming over passages penned in tiny, cramped handwriting— _tar áemay, Rose really_ would _have a field day with this!_ —until she finds the maps.

They’re all done in neat, competent lines, spreading page by page from the nexus beneath Herzingen and out to the mainland. A spider’s web of traps and cowardice written in stone. Her lips curl into a deeper smirk as she reaches for her pen and a fresh sheet of paper and, humming, begins to sketch.

If Cassandra delivers her end of the bargain, of course Moira will keep her word and return the Journal, but one way or another, she intends to get paid—and Andrew and his associates don’t really need the _book_.

Just the maps.


	14. Chapter 13: Into the Snow or the Sun

###  **Chapter 13: Into the Snow or the Sun**

_It isn’t fair._

The thought pulsates in Rapunzel’s mind as she pushes her eggs around her plate with listless indifference. Last night, she sat outside Cassandra’s door for hours, swallowing tears and trying to muster some apology for- for trying to be a good friend; for wanting to make sure Cass had a nice holiday. For— _yes,_ Cass asked her to stop, but if there’s one thing she’s learnt since leaving her tower, it’s that people don’t always say what they mean, and you’re supposed to read between the lines—until you _aren’t,_ and then you’ve upset your friend and she hates you now and—

It’s not _fair._

Cass never opened the door. Eventually, she’d trudged up to her bedroom to crawl into bed and have a cry and wonder what to do; she doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she must have done so, because she jolted awake this morning to brisk knocking and a toneless _rise and shine_ from Cassandra. Her stilted effort to apologize again met with an expressionless mask and a curt, “You’ll be late for breakfast, Your Highness,” and now they’ve subsided into granite silence.

It all fills the pit of her stomach with knives and nausea, and the food piled on her plate looks about as appetizing as mud. Beside her, Cass cuts sausages into tiny pieces and eats them with perfect daintiness, ignoring Rapunzel’s every plaintive glance.

The door to the dining hall bangs open, and Rapunzel looks around eagerly. Eugene’s never on time for breakfast—except it isn’t Eugene, this time. Sir Peter strides into the dining hall wearing the grimmest expression Rapunzel has ever seen, and goes straight to her father’s side. While he speaks to Dad in an urgent undertone, Rapunzel exchanges a glance with Cass—tries to; Cass just stares at her plate like she’s trying to melt a hole through it with the force of her gaze.

“I see,” Dad rumbles. He drops his fork with a clatter, and Sir Peter melts out of his way as he rises to his feet. “Gilbert, Ludolf—Nigel—Rapunzel…” A sigh falls from his lips. “Come with me, darling. _Just_ Rapunzel, if you please, Miss Morgenstern.”

Cassandra drops back into her seat, blank-faced still, while Rapunzel scrambles to her feet.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

Dad shakes his head, gesturing for them to follow him out of the hall. Once they emerge into the relative privacy of the corridor, he lays a hand between her shoulders and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Rapunzel. I… had hoped to spare you this lesson for some time yet, but I’m afraid the reality of rule is that problems seldom wait for our convenience.”

“What lesson?”

His mouth thins in a bleak little smile. “Sometimes, darling, there are no good choices.”

“Sun in the sky, Fred, what’s _happened?_ ”

“Gilbert, please.” Dad steers them in a sweeping arc around the corner of the dining hall, and then into the stairwell; the now-familiar route. “Sir Peter will brief us on the full details in the war room.”

Little more is said until they reach the war room; Rapunzel slides into her seat beside her father, shares worried glances with Ludolf, watches Nigel twitch and fret his way into his chair while her uncles find theirs.

“Sir Peter?” Dad says, prompting.

“Your Majesty.” His throat bobs as he unbuckles his helmet and cradles it to his chest; the thinning hair atop his head is plastered down with sweat. He licks his lips. “Your Highnesses—Mr. Bossard. The Journal of Herz der Sonne has been stolen,” he says, to a wordless noise of anger from Gilbert and an audible gasp from Nigel; the hard lines of his face grow harsher, but he carries on in a dry, factual tone. “Last night, sometime between ten o’clock, when Sergeant Hall performed last checks on the vault, and this morning, when the archivists entered it to clean and found the Journal missing. My men are combing the Archive now for—”

“Enough!” Gilbert smacks his palm against the tabletop and sits forward, his eyes narrowed to slits. “As if your _bungling_ of the Patton investigation were not enough, now _this?_ This– this is outrageous, Commander. You’ve let the Saporians run wild to murder your officers in the streets—”

“Janus Point is not a—”

“—and it is clear they have been emboldened by your incompetence—”

“We don’t _know_ that the Journal was stolen by Separatists, Your Highness,” Sir Peter says, his jaw clenching tighter with every word.

Gilbert scoffs, and Dad says, “Yet it does seem they are the likeliest culprit. In… the essentials, Sir Peter, I’m of a mind with Gilbert; the slow progress of your investigation of Patton’s murder worries me more in light of this new… development.”

“But how could Separatists have infiltrated the Archive?” Nigel wrings his hands together, looking on the verge of panic. “On Unification Day, no less! When we have double patrols, and– and—?”

All eyes turn to Sir Peter again, and a beat of uncomfortable silence turns the atmosphere to lead. Sweat sheens his brow; he looks almost as ashen as the overcast sky, almost as discomfited as Rapunzel herself. “I… suspect… that the thief received– help. From inside the palace,” he says, slow; like every word is being hooked out of him by force. “Someone familiar with the- the arrangements surrounding the vault.”

“Someone like your daughter, Commander?” Gilbert grumbles.

“ _Sir_ — _!_ ”

“Cassandra would _never_ do that!!”

She doesn’t mean to shout, and she flushes as everyone turns to stare at her. Sir Peter’s face warm with gratitude; Gilbert’s cold and doubtful. Her breath whistles through her lungs like a breeze through river reeds. All this talk of- of _murder_ and treason and- and– and why _Cassandra_ of all people? Sure, Cass is… rough around the edges and slow to warm up to people, but none of that makes her a _bad person._

“Cass is my best friend—after, after Pascal, and Eugene. And she _loves_ Corona, she would _never_ do anything to put the security of the kingdom at risk. I _know_ she wouldn’t!”

Dad tips his head toward her and murmurs, “I understand your… concerns about the girl’s heritage, Gilbert, but it is true that she’s never shown any sign of disloyalty. I am sure Arianna would vouch for her as well.”

“My daughter is not a _Separatist,_ ” Sir Peter adds flatly.

Gilbert folds his hands together over the table and, unruffled, says, “The stakes are too high to leave a stone unturned because it is– uncomfortable, to consider what may lie beneath.” He blinks once at Sir Peter, slow. “Coming from a father, your defense of Cassandra is understandable, but not what is required from you in your capacity as our Commander. There _is_ a reason we do not make a habit of employing Saporians in the palace.”

“ _Cassandra,_ ” Sir Peter snaps, “wants nothing more than to serve Corona—”

“And yet.” Gilbert cocks his head like a bird sizing up a worm. “She speaks the language, does she not? Consorts with other Saporians. I have heard rumors that she has even… adopted some aspects of their… lifestyle. It cannot be denied that she has not, ah, fallen as far from the tree as you would like to think.”

Sir Peter’s knuckles go white around his helmet. “Knowing Saporian is not a crime, and Cassandra’s translations have resulted in dozens of arrest since she began—”

“Not a crime, no. Nonetheless…”

_Her heritage? —other Saporians— lifestyle? What—_

_Is- is Cassandra_ Saporian?

_If she is… why didn’t she tell me?_

Rapunzel’s still reeling from the onslaught of new information and Gilbert’s stubborn insistence that _Cassandra_ could have betrayed their whole kingdom when Dad, sighing, says, “Caution demands that we pursue every possible lead, Commander.”

“Sir, please—”

“To be clear, I do not believe Cassandra is… truly responsible.” Dad pinches the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowing. “But it’s also true that she has an unusual—if… slight—connection to the Separatist movement. That is at least worth a conversation, Sir Peter.”

“I–” For an instant the stony set of Sir Peter’s jaw wavers; his shoulders sink into something that might have been a slump were his armor not propping him up. “I’ll… speak to her, Your Majesty. Of course.”

“Thank you,” Dad murmurs.

“Further, there is the matter of what the Saporians intend to _do,_ ” Gilbert adds. “Even if catching the thief is within the capabilities of the King’s Watch—which seems more in doubt now than ever—”

“ _Gilbert_.”

Gilbert frowns in Dad’s direction, but doesn’t relent. “—the damage done is by now irrevocable. The Saporians have accessed the Journal’s maps, and our greatest asset has become a liability. Frederic, I have entreated you twice now to authorize harsher measures to contain the Saporian threat, and both times—” he sends a withering glare across the table “—I have been drowned out by protestations that such a decision would harm the very people who seek our destruction.”

“I say an undertaking to plug the tunnels leading to the mainland and a patrol to catch any who attempt to infiltrate our city through the labyrinth is a better course than an indiscriminate crackdown,” Ludolf says, sounding weary. “It has been decades since those tunnels saw real use—we have nothing to lose and much to gain from closing them.”

“We have nothing to lose and much to gain from crushing the problem at its source,” Gilbert snaps. “You know my proposal, Frederic. The King’s Watch is ill-equipped to this task; we need a militia, one authorized to act with _whatever_ force required to quell this rebellion.”

“The Watch is perfectly capable—” Sir Peter begins hotly.

“I gave Sir Peter full authority to conduct the Patton investigation as he saw fit,” Dad says. Sir Peter snaps his mouth shut with a visible wince as Dad turns toward him. “Thus far, we have seen little in the way of… results. Why is that, Commander?”

“It is because he hasn’t _used_ that authority,” Gilbert mutters venomously. “Not one arrest in almost four months—”

“I will not arrest people without evidence that they have committed a crime.” Sir Peter closes his eyes, drawing in an audible breath through his nose and releasing it with a low whining sound. “Bringing Saporians into custody at random will not produce witnesses to a crime unwitnessed by anyone but the murderer; nor will it ease the tensions eating Alcorsīa alive. The Separatist problem is not one that can be solved with force.”

“No,” Dad sighs. “No, but neither can we sit and do nothing. Patton’s killing can no longer be considered an isolated crime—it signaled an escalation that I fear will only continue now that the Separatists have the Journal. If ever there was a time to restore Corona’s militia, it is now.”

Gilbert smiles. It’s an ugly smile, gilded with triumph and sharpened with a cruelty unfamiliar on his ordinarily jocular face, and Rapunzel lowers her gaze to the tabletop rather than look at him.

_Many Saporians submitted in the end, weary of the slaughter—_

Ornella’s version of the Unification tale left her a little queasy, a cold weight in her stomach that the fiery second act of _Our Country’s Peace_ hadn’t quite thawed, and that feeling is back with a vengeance now. Four months—that’s almost as long as she’s been in Herzingen, and the _whole time_ this ugliness bubbled beneath the surface; murder and rebellion and her loud, boisterous uncle pushing for what sounds like another occupation.

Her head spins.

_That can’t be right, can it? Maybe– maybe those terrible things did happen then, but Dad would never let it happen again._

“C- couldn’t we just—talk to them?” Rapunzel whispers.

Even as she says it, she knows it’s wrong; she can see that in the pity tinging the look Sir Peter sends her, the sympathy in Ludolf’s glance, the raw exasperation in the twist of Gilbert’s mouth.

“The Separatists have never shown any interest in negotiation,” Nigel says. “Diplomacy only works if everyone, er, comes to the table.”

“Oh.”

Rapunzel subsides into silence again, fiddling with her skirt while Gilbert and Dad barter _militia_ down to _elite investigatory team,_ with swift interjections from Sir Peter, who insists upon having oversight of the new force, and Nigel, who slips in and out of the discussion with the logistical concerns he always seems to have. Ludolf stays quiet, too, looking almost as unhappy as she feels.

At last it’s over, the new law drafted and given a perfunctory signature by her father, and as Nigel sweeps away with the paperwork in hand to implement it, Rapunzel takes her father by the arm. Gilbert marches out of the war room with Ludolf trudging in his wake, and once it’s just her and Dad, she ventures, “Dad– about… Cassandra…?”

“…Ah.” Faint surprise drifts over his face. “She hasn’t told you?”

“I knew she was adopted…” she says weakly.

“Yes. Yes, it’s… a sad story.” Dad moves toward the window, and Rapunzel trails after him, joins him in looking down at the dry expanse of the lawn. Everything looks flattened in the dreary morning light. “I… don’t know how much Master Vernors taught you about the Separatists of Saporia.”

 _He_ didn’t teach her anything, and Rapunzel has half a mind to say so—to demand to know _why_ —but in the end all she says is, “I know… enough.”

Dad nods distractedly, folding his arms behind his back. “Cassandra’s parents were responsible for the Socona poisonings eighteen years ago,” he says. “The deadliest Separatist attack in over a century. Six people died, and dozens more became sick, including Arianna.” He sags beneath the weight of the memory. “After everything I had done to save her when she fell ill in the weeks before you were born… Only three months later it again seemed I might lose her.”

“Oh, Dad…”

He clasps her shoulder, offering her a weak smile through the sheen of tears in his eyes. “That is… how we discovered that some of the sundrops healing magic had passed into you, darling,” he says. “At first you were kept away from her, out of fear that the sickness might claim you, too, but—once we discovered she had been _poisoned,_ I rushed you to her bedside. She was so ill she could barely move, but she wanted to hold you, sing to you one last– one last time. And when she did—”

“My hair,” Rapunzel whispers.

Chuckling, Dad dabs at his tears. “We were so startled, you know, when you came out blonde. We joked that Abraham couldn’t make it to your lustration, so he sent you his hair instead… It never crossed our minds that it might have been a- a gift from the sundrop. But. When Arianna sang your lullaby, your hair…” He clears his throat. “Healed your mother, and then it healed everyone else who had fallen ill. A second miracle. It seemed… too good to be true.”

How long had it been, after that, before Gothel stole her away? Rapunzel bites her lip, deciding that question is too cruel to ask, and opts for leaning against Dad’s side instead.

“Cassandra,” he continues at length, “was four, at the time. Sir Peter brought her back from the arrest of her father and… none of us could decide what to do with her. Put her in an orphanage, but he had already become very attached.”

“He adopted her.”

“In the end, yes.”

“But that was eighteen years ago,” Rapunzel says. “Why does it matter anymore? Why doesn’t Uncle Gilbert trust her? Why don’t _you?_ ”

“It isn’t a question of… trust,” Dad says, brows knitting together. “She has good intentions, certainly. But she can also be… reckless, headstrong, stubborn. Traits that can impair judgment even in the best of people. Gilbert may suffer from an- an _excess_ of suspicion, but I do share his… basic concerns.”

“…She’s my _friend._ ”

“I know, darling. Arianna is very fond of her, too. But sometimes our feelings must be set aside for the good of the country.”

No good choices.

She looks out across the lawn again; over the top of the palace wall, down the slope of the island, all the way to the slate-grey sea. All the thousands of people living in Herzingen who depend on her father to keep them safe.

“I… understand, I think,” she whispers. Even if she doesn’t _like_ it. Even if she _hates_ it, because Cass would _never,_ and it’s not fair—nothing is fair.

Dad squeezes her shoulder. “Good.”

## ❦

“Mom? Can I— I mean, I need some advice.”

Mom folds the letter she’d been reading when Rapunzel sidled into the parlor and looks up at her with a soft smile. “Of course, sweetheart. Come sit down.”

She pats the cushioned lounge beside her, and when Rapunzel collapses onto it, slips an arm around her shoulders.

“It’s about Cassandra. I- I think I made a huge mistake. And. We fought– and it’s my fault…”

Haltingly, she stumbles through an explanation, beginning with the first argument over the Day of Hearts, and then Eugene going to talk to Cass and the surprising ease that crept into their relationship afterwards; and then how everything seemed _fine,_ until it wasn’t, and Cass was miserable and Rapunzel just wanted to make her happy, and didn’t _listen,_ and now—

When she stammers her way into tearful silence at last, Mom sighs quietly and murmurs, “Oh, sweetheart.”

“N-now she thinks I _hate_ her.” Rapunzel scrubs at her eyes, leaning more into Mom’s loose embrace. “And– this morning— Uncle Gilbert thinks _she_ stole the Journal, and he kept saying all these a- awful things about her and—”

Cass should have a friend who can stand up for her. _Support_ her.

Mom says, “I received a letter from Willow today. She’s on her way to Corona, and she’ll be here in just a few days. I can’t wait for you to meet her, but—” she squeezes Rapunzel’s arm, chuckling “—you know, once, when we were teenagers, we had this _awful_ fight. Willow didn’t talk to me for _months;_ and… for a while, it felt like we’d never be close again. I was so scared of losing my sister that I kept… pushing, and pushing, trying to mend things between us before she was ready, and that only made it worse.”

A small, unwilling smile tugs at the corners of her lips, because that sounds _painfully_ familiar. “So what did you do?”

“I stopped,” Mom says, with a light shrug. “I… got so tired of _trying_ that after a while I gave up, and… then a couple weeks later, Willow woke me up in the middle of the night and told me everything. How upset she felt and how she felt like I only cared about making her forgive me, not _her_ …” She sighs. “It hurt a lot. But I listened, and that- that was what she’d wanted all along, really. Things were still… a little fraught between us for a while, but we were _talking_ again. It got better.”

She’s quiet for a moment while Rapunzel mulls this over. It’s hard to see anything but the fury contorting Cassandra’s face last night or the chill mask she’s worn today, but– but—

“…You really think Cass and I can still be friends? If, if I…?”

“I _know_ you can,” Mom murmurs, stroking her hair. “Even though she’s upset now, Cassandra cares about you. Just… let her have some time to sort out how she feels, and then… talk, when she’s ready to talk. It’ll be okay.”

## ❦

A cheery clangor of bells greet her as she shuffles into the cobbler shop. Hunching, Cassandra makes a flimsy performance of browsing the wears while Feldspar finishes up a fitting for a small boy of six or seven, collects his payment from the boy’s mother, and hustles the both of them out of the shop.

“Into the back, now,” he says, imperious, as he locks the front door. “You look awful. What’s happened?”

Cassandra just shakes her head and lets him usher her into the back, slumping into one of the overstuffed armchairs while he prepares the tea things with a great clattering of porcelain.

“I heard a rumor,” Feldspar says, once the kettle’s on to boil and she still hasn’t said a word, “that the, ah—there was some sort of disturbance in the palace this morning.”

A _disturbance._ Sure. Cassandra snorts.

She spent the better part of last night wandering the beach, aimless, watching the waves batter themselves against the sand. A cold drizzle set in some time after midnight, and she slunk back to the palace to pace her bedroom in damp misery until exhaustion won out over the torrential fears and furies of the night and she collapsed into bed for an hour or two of sleep before dawn.

Dread ate her alive all morning until her father pulled her aside just after lunch to… inform her of the situation, and to ask in mumbled, sidelong, reluctant terms whether she knew anything about the Journal’s theft.

Her own _father._

But it’s hard to dredge up anger at the injustice of it all, not when the crime feels painted in crimson onto her hands; not when she looked her father straight in the eye and lied to his face.

 _“Wow,_ Dad, thanks for the vote of confidence. No, I _don’t_ know anything. _”_

“Cassandra—”

She stalked away, head clouded with the cold, muffling fog of guilt and self-disgust and bleak despair; there’s no easy way to get _off_ this path now that she’s taken the first step.

“Someone stole the Journal of Herz der Sonne,” she mutters at last. There’s a loud _clank_ as Feldspar fumbles the strainer and, grimacing, Cassandra slides into Saporian. “No— _I_ did. I… helped steal it.”

Palpable confusion clogs the silence that follows this pronouncement; she lets her hands fall from her face and peers at Feldspar to gauge his reaction, and finds him gaping at her.

And the words pour out. “For the _Separatists._ I planned the whole thing, it was supposed to be a _trick,_ but I- I didn’t think, I never _think,_ I just—wanted my dad to be proud of me.” Her hands ball into fists, grinding into her lap. “And then I just _let her take it,_ because I’m a coward. And a traitor.”

“Well. Well–” Feldspar plucks the kettle off the stove as it begins to shrill and then just stands there holding it while steam rises in lazy coils from the spout. “Well what do you want me to do about it, march you up to the palace and turn you in? No _thanks._ ”

“Wh- what?”

“Just keep your head down until all this blows over,” he continues, shuffling around to pour the water at last. “That’s my advice.”

 _What?!_

“I compromised state secrets—”

“Saporians also wear shoes,” Feldspar says, prim. He marches between the clustered armchairs to shove a cup of tea into her hands, and the scramble not to let any of the steaming liquid slop into her lap overwhelms everything else for a moment; long enough for him to fall into a seat of his own and adds, “No skin off my nose, you know.”

“But—”

But.

Feldspar raises his eyebrows over the rim of his teacup, and Cassandra lapses into befuddled silence. _Never_ in a hundred years would she have guessed he might harbor any sympathy for the Separatists; and she’d expected some– some _scolding,_ or shock and horror, or, yes, maybe even for him to turn her in like she deserves. Not for him to meet her confession with a _shrug_.

“I don’t understand,” she whines.

“Well, I like your head where it is,” Feldspar says, in the slow, patient sort of voice parents use to explain simple things to small children. “Not in the stocks or a noose or wherever else—it’s simple as that. Don’t let the tea get cold, now. Nothing worse than cold tea.”

Baffled— _beyond_ baffled—Cassandra lifts the cup to her lips and drinks, barely tasting it, and when Feldspar changes the subject to the new brand of boot polish he's been eyeing all week, she can't think of anything to do but nod along in mute support.

 _He’s not horrified. He doesn't even–_ care. 

_Why not?_

## ❦

Her head is still a jumble as she slips into the Royal Archive that night. Beyond stupid, returning to the scene of her crime, but Caine’s three-day offer doesn’t leave her any time to waste. Assuming the pirate even intends to honor their deal, which seems stupid in its own right—but she can’t ignore the chance, however slim, to fix her mistake. Recover the Journal, slip it into her father’s office.

The idea of taking credit for finding it is out of the question. She’d have to explain how it fell into her hands, and she can’t think of a way to do so without implicating herself in the theft.

_Coward. Coward. Coward—_

She slinks through the stacks, soundless, lightless. It’s nearing midnight; besides the patrol in the corridor leading to the Archive, she’s alone in this wing of the palace.

The King’s Watch houses arrest warrants at far end of the archives, in a cluster of disorganized cabinets. Solved cases get filed in rough chronological order once they go to trial, and Torin Caine was arrested and sentenced sixteen years ago…

Moonlight trickles in through the windows, faint. Cassandra traces her fingertips over the tiny brass placards affixed to each cabinet, feeling out the engraved numerals— _1673, 1672, 1671, 1670…_

_1657._

Gingerly, she eases the first drawer of the cabinet open. Its dusty rollers squeal into the quiet Archive and the smell of old, dry paper blooms out and Cassandra winces—

_Nobody’s here but you! Calm down._

Every rustle of every file she touches makes her heart kick, and the profound dread percolating in her veins builds to a steady roar. But she forces herself to keep moving, progressing inch by agonizing inch through long-forgotten records of thefts and burglaries and disturbances punctuated now and then by murders, assaults—the bombing of a constabulary in Alcorsīa—vandalisms…

_Where in the world is Torin Caine?_

The first file to catch her eye enough for more than a cursory glance belongs to Cīramo Friel, who was arrested on the baffling charge of wearing a sword nine inches longer than the city measure.

It’s a familiar regulation, but one enforced by means of escorting travelers to their lodgings to stow oversized arms for the length of their stay in the city—and perhaps a small fine or seizure of the weapon for repeat offenders. Not once in her twenty-two years has Cassandra heard of someone being _arrested_ for such a minor offense.

She slides that file fully out of the the drawer and rifles through it, squinting in the feeble moonlight read. But there’s nothing else, no further context to make sense of it—no mention of belligerence or violence in response to a warning, no known criminal history, no… anything. Just cramped, faded handwriting noting the singular charge and describing, in perfunctory detail, Friel’s sentence of a ten crown fine, seizure of his longsword, and expulsion from Herzingen on pain of imprisonment if he returned.

_This isn’t… right._

Unsettled, Cassandra sets Friel’s file aside and pulls out the next, and the next, scanning through each of them in turn; ordinary, unremarkable, and she is on the cusp of concluding that the Friel case was a bizarre fluke, the fault of an overzealous new recruit perhaps, when she finds Simone Marchand, sentenced to ten years on the Lost Sea on vandalism charges for splashing paint on a statue—and Aroana Descotaeux, given _lashes_ for disturbance of the peace—and others—

Papers rain through her hands as she tears through the rest of the cabinet. King Frederic oversaw a harsh crackdown on crime in the years after Rapunzel’s kidnapping, she _knew_ that, but that had always sounded like a good thing. He made Corona better— _safer._ Losing his own daughter woke him to the struggles of his own subjects, to the terror and violation of becoming the victim of a crime, and it instilled in him a solemn desire to _protect._ To put criminals where they belonged, in prisons where they could do no more harm to anyone.

Cassandra imagined bandits and murderers and thugs with blood on their hands shipped away to the Lost Sea. Not… whatever this is.

She’s ankle-deep in ancient files and lost in contemplation when she notices the lantern light spilling around the shelves, and by then it’s too late to hide; Cassandra slams the cabinet closed, bolting upright and trying not to look too guilty as her father stumps into view.

For a second they stare at each other through the harsh glow of his lantern, her breath frozen in her lungs, he looking puzzled to find her here; then he says, “Cassandra?” with mild confusion and she forces her rigid limbs to relax.

“H- hi, Dad.”

Frowning, he sets the lantern down on the nearest cabinet and crouches down, picks up one of her discarded files and thumbs through it. “What’s all… this, honey?”

“It–” For an instant she grapples with the lunatic urge to confess, but she chokes it down, stares at the papers swimming around her boots, and mumbles the first reasonable-sounding lie that comes to mind. “I was… looking for the records of- of my parents’ trial.”

“Oh.” The files settle, rustling. Her father clears his throat and reaches past her to knock his fist against the side of the cabinet, muttering, “This is- uh. Few years too early. Try the next one down.”

“Right. My fault for not bringing a light, huh.” She forces a smile, which contorts into a painful rictus when it isn’t returned. “I mean, thanks, Dad.”

“But, honey, why…?”

Her heart sinks. Her parentage sits at the bottom of the deep, awkward well of things they _don’t_ talk about; she’s always thought her father prefers to pretend she’s _his_ in every way, Coronan through and through. Any reminder of the one inescapable way she _isn’t_ makes him… stiff.

“I– just… with- with everything…” Cassandra smooths out the cover of the file she’s been clutching, a heavy report concerning the trial and execution of Caspar Northrop, a highwayman who terrorized the roads between Anbruch and Artois for years. Someone who _deserved_ it.“…I always– why did they _do_ it? Why— if they hadn’t, my life would be so– I- I just…”

“No one holds it against you, Cassandra,” her father says gruffly. He clasps her shoulder, his grip solid and firm and- and _real,_ and she clings to what small comfort that offers. “You were _four._ Those… people did an awful thing, and they were punished for it, and now it’s over. It doesn’t matter any more.”

The file’s spine has a thick, fuzzy crease; she rubs her thumb against it, fumbling after thoughts too quick and fragmentary to hold on to. That isn’t what she asked, but the only two people who could tell her why are _dead._

“Do you really believe that?” she whispers.

“—Yes. Of course.”

It’s less than a second of hesitation, but it’s _enough._ She shies away, staring hard at the sharp line between black and orange where the shadow of the cabinet slices through the lantern light. “No you _don’t._ And you don’t– know what it’s like, t- to— live– like that…”

 _And it matters. It matters._ Her heart feels flayed and laid bare; a squirming, screaming, bleeding thing. Even her own _father_ doesn’t trust her, and she can’t pretend anymore that she _deserves_ his trust.

Her father says nothing. He makes an awkward, aborted movement to reach for her shoulder again and doesn’t, and Cassandra crosses her arms and scowls into the murky gloom beyond the lantern’s touch.

“Never mind,” she mutters. “This was– I made a mess. I’ll clean up.”

He’ll never know all the meanings she layers into that promise, and somehow that stings, too.

Sighing, her father shuffles past her, further down the rows of cabinets; he pulls open a drawer, skims his fingers over the files crammed inside, and withdraws one from the middle. “Here. It’s… here.”

Something like an apology flickers in his eyes. The file feels weighty as stone when he passes it into her hands, and Cassandra swallows hard as she flips the cover open and scans the long, familiar list of charges.

“Keep the lantern,” her father says, his voice rough. “Not good to read in the dark. And just… put things back how you found ’em when you leave.”

“Right.”

He gives her the kind of curt nod he’d give one of his guards after a long briefing, and then a wavering smile that filters awkwardly through the cracks of his stoic Commander’s mask; then he goes, and Cassandra looks down at her parents’ file again.

Six counts of murder. Treason. And a long cascade of other charges, but murder and treason were the ones that _counted,_ the ones that made the trial before their hangings a mere formality.

_They were bad people. They deserved to hang._

Strange, how that feels like a reassurance somehow, now.

Unsettled, she returns her parents’ file to its place, and resumes her search for Torin Caine.

## ❦

She meets Caine in the labyrinth.

The glass bird dropped a note on her face in the middle of the second night after—they—stole the Journal, giving a place and time in the same meticulous handwriting and dark red ink she grew so accustomed to during their _stupid_ correspondence, and the crumpled paper feels like a live coal smoldering in her pocket as she slips through the tunnels, lantern in hand, sword at her hip.

Moira Caine is waiting for her, lounging against the old stonework and examining her nails in the greenish light of her own lantern. Like Cassandra, she’s better-dressed for a fight; loose breeches, sturdy boots, a dark grey coat falling open over a cuirass of molded leather; a long saber at her hip. She cocks her head with mild interest as Cassandra stops and sets her lantern down.

“No ambush?” Caine asks in a silky undertone. “Tsk, tsk. I’m almost disappointed, honey.”

“Shut up,” Cassandra mutters. The slim file concerning the arrest and imprisonment of Torin Caine lurks in her satchel, the prize she tore from the back of the cabinet at the end of her frantic search through the archives; just three pages, a few mouthfuls of stolen food, a swift trial, five years on a prison barge. Scrawled onto the bottom of the last page are the words _deceased - died at sea._

What is she supposed to _say?_

“…Look, honey. Whatever you’ve got to say, spit it _out._ I’ve got places to be– people to see– payments to collect, you know how it is.”

“Shut _up._ ” It’s cold in the tunnels, but the air still feels stuffy and cloying as she works the file out of the satchel and holds it out, offering. Caine arches an eyebrow. “I assume you can _read._ ”

Caine smirks, but there’s something hollow in the expression; and she hesitates for a fraction of a second before she reaches out and tugs the file free. Cassandra waits, watching, as the pirate backs away and flips through the scant pages, as her face hardens and a nerve pulses in her jaw.

“I- I was ten,” Cassandra mumbles, as the silence begins to feel like a dagger against her throat. “When I—found out. About my parents.”

Ten when she first read the descriptions of sickness sweeping through the palace, the race to identify the perpetrators, the trials and executions. She remembers having nightmares, and the Commander’s stiff comfort.

The look on Caine’s face when she closes the file makes her flinch; not a glare, but her mouth is set in a sharp, grim line and death howls in her eyes. She unsticks her jaw with a visible effort and mutters, “I was—eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

This elicits an icy sneer, but Caine stuffs the file into her coat and crouches to scoop something out of the bag at her feet anyway. The Journal, no worse for wear.

“Here. Deal’s a deal.”

Cassandra feels her hands twitch. Like the ghost of a movement, the last echo of the choice to reach out and take the book and sneak it into her father’s office, where he’ll find it in the morning and she’ll feel the quiet satisfaction of having done something _right_ for once; and then it dies.

She’s tired.

“Keep it.”

“…What?”

It’s months of weight on her shoulders, it’s responsibilities piled on but never the ones she craves, it’s deluges of pink hearts and sunny smiles and a Princess who doesn’t know any better, it’s the pretty pantomime of history playing out on the stage every night for the rest of the week; it’s Feldspar, scoffing at the notion that he ought to care more about Corona’s safety than hers, and it’s her father, tripping over an accusation he didn’t even have the decency to be straightforward about.

It’s… she’s just so _tired._

“Keep the Journal. I don’t… Just… keep it.”

Caine gives her a long, thoughtful look, then tucks it back into the bag, which she slings over her shoulder with a careless shrug. “D’you know,” she says, in an odd, dry tone, “you’re the reason the Separatists don’t let parents join up anymore?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“You ever want out,” Caine adds, blithe now, the mocking smirk scything back onto her lips like it never left, “you find me in Alcorsīa. Good luck with the Princess, honey—she seems like a real handful.”

She picks up her lantern and goes, sauntering around the corner while Cassandra stands rooted to the spot by- by— something, a discomfort she can’t name. The faint greenish light of Caine’s lantern fades slowly into shadows, and then she’s alone, in the empty gloom.

 _What was_ that?

Her hand settles on the pommel of her broadsword, the cold steel cap soothing against the hot clamminess of her palm. She really should go after Caine; say she’s changed her mind and she does want the Journal after all. Fight for it if she has to.

There’s a lot of things she _should_ do.

Scowling, at herself, at Caine, at this whole mess she’s burrowed herself into, Cassandra turns around and goes back the way she came.

## ❦

Knocking on Rapunzel’s door feels like the hardest thing she’s ever done. Cassandra traces the faint grain of the wood beneath the lacquer, listening to the pad of bare feet on stone coming from the other side, and peeks up through her curls when the hinges creak and the soft golden light from inside spills over her.

“…Cass?”

“Raps– I…”

She doesn’t know how to do this. The past few days of cold politeness and stilted silences wore on her more than she’d cared to admit, but—apologizing is… not her strong suit, and if the Journal debacle has made anything clear it’s that she has a knack for causing problems and then making them _worse_ when she scrambles to fix them.

Still.

“Could I… come in?”

Rapunzel steps back without a word, tugging the door open wider to welcome her in, and a small bubble of gratitude wells up in her throat. The windows are propped open, and a cool breeze makes the gauzy curtains flutter against the sill; Pascal’s curled up on his cushion on the vanity, and there’s an easel set up next to him with—

_Oh. Well…_

Cassandra snickers before she can stop herself. “I, uh, like the painting.”

“…Really? But I made you look so _mean._ ”

“Yeah, well.” Her face snarls out of the canvas, lips curled back from a mouthful of jagged teeth. Harsh black shadows make her look downright demonic in her rage. Cassandra cups a hand around the back of her neck, sheepish. “I… deserve that. And, you know, the fangs are pretty cool.”

“Still! It—ugh. It’s not very nice—” Rapunzel skitters across the room, scoops up a discarded nightgown and tosses it over the easel, her cheeks deepening into red. “I, I, you’re allowed to be angry…”

“…You don’t. Have to apologize, Rapunzel. I messed up– the- blowing up at you like that was _so_ out of line. I’m really sorry.”

Another puff of the breeze swirls around the room, ruffling Rapunzel’s hair; the Princess gnaws on her lip for a moment, and then sidles closer to her and reaches for Cassandra’s hand. “It’s okay,” she says, quiet. “You had an… aggravating day.”

“Uh-huh.” _What_ an understatement—but she tugs Rapunzel over to the window seat and sinks down with a sigh. “The… truth is I– these past few months have been hard. Being a lady-in-waiting isn’t really what I wanted to do with my life, but… Dad won’t let me join the Watch. And all of that sort of came to a head on Unification Day. I… do wish you’d _listened_ when I said I didn’t– want… but. I shouldn’t have taken all the other stuff out on you.”

Rapunzel plops down next to her, tucking up her legs, and gives her hand a tight squeeze. “I’m sorry I got so overbearing.”

“Thanks, Raps. And– you _are_ my friend, alright? If you still want to be after all that, I mean. I missed y—”

The rest of the word gets crushed out of her by the exuberant force of the hug; Cassandra sputters, but she grins, too, and tucks her arms around Rapunzel’s shoulders.

“Of _course_ I still want to be friends! I’ve missed you too.” Rapunzel releases her and settles back against the cushions, beaming. “And I- I want you to know that I _do_ respect you. I look up to you! And… I guess that’s why I went… _so_ overboard with the– Unification Day thing. I just wanted you to have a nice time.”

“Didn’t work,” Cassandra says, dry, to an embarrassed chuckle from Rapunzel. “But… thanks, for the thought. And, you know—Goodwill Festival’s coming up in a few days, and that—” she makes a fist and nudges Rapunzel’s shoulder with a small, hopeful smile “—is a holiday I _do_ like. We could make a day of it. Hit up the fair. Watch the gopher grab.”

“…Sorry, the _what?_ ”

“ _Exactly_ what it sounds like, Raps. You in?”

Rapunzel grins, and _this_ time the excited gleam sparking in her eye feels infectious. _Fun,_ even. A ray of sunlight breaking the knotted storm clouds of the last few days. She grins back.

“I’m in.”


	15. Chapter 14: Blue Feathers from a Dead Jay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Injuries/blood.
> 
> We're at the halfway point, folks!

###  **Chapter 14: Blue Feathers from a Dead Jay**

In the oldest stories, power blooms on Tároshdhan. Sirin has never cared much for myth, but as she sets up her cart beneath the bone-white sky, she imagines a prickle of anticipation in the cool air. When she made her monthly visit to the peatland last night to dredge up all the power the land would give her, the pitch seethed, hissed, _sang_ with eagerness; and now it coils in her skin, envenomed and hungry. The flowers whisper wilt in her hands, the sweet, insidious creep of decay.

Sap coats her tongue.

Everyone _smiles_ in Herzingen. Youthful laughter burbles across the park where the celebrants for the Goodwill Festival have gathered. Sirin drums her fingers against the splintering counter of her cart, watching the children play. Gaudy tents circle the makeshift ring for the gopher grab, and a half dozen or so burly men plod between them, erecting rickety wooden stands in preparation for what passes as entertainment here.

The other stalls scattered around the fringes do steadier business, selling their Coronan pennants, souvenirs, sweets, warm cider; hers languishes. Those shoppers lured in by the colorful sprays of her flowers blanch when they glance into her face, and most veer away from the slight, contemptuous smirk she offers them in turn. A few approach with simpering pity, with pompous masks of altruism declaring them unafraid of the Saporian in their midst, and when she takes their coin she smiles with disdain caged behind her teeth and rot crawling in her fingertips.

She keeps one eye on the streets leading into the park. The possibility that the Princess might shelter inside the palace today weighs heavy on her mind, on everyone’s; and while she trusts Andrew to execute their contingency plan if that should happen, she—

_I want to see her._

—she… hopes.

Splinters prickle through the thin fabric of her gloves. The feverish magic burrowed under her skin throbs. She breathes out, and out, and out.

And she waits.

## ❦

“Well, _I_ for one am glad we’re all getting along again.” With a jaunty smile, Eugene pantomimes patting her on the back, and Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Just in time for this… very random holiday about… getting along?”

“If you opened a history book, you know, _ever,_ you’d know the Goodwill Festival has a long, distinguished history—”

“Oh! I know this one!” Lance brandishes his candied apple with a smirk as he digs his elbow into Eugene’s side. “Because I read.”

“Ha ha.”

“Marks the day Corona signed the Sevenfold Pact, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Ha!”

Cassandra catches Rapunzel’s eye, and they exchange grins. She’d felt a little sour, before they left the palace, over the security detail King Frederic had… _suggested_ they bring along today. Stan and Pete drift along in their wake, bickering quietly about something or other, and their presence casts a pall over the otherwise pleasant morning—a sickening reminder of the price for her reckless ambition and impulsive, misplaced pity.

But it’s a beautiful day, clear and warm for Tárosh despite the promise of evening rain scrawled across the overcast sky. The slight breeze tosses Rapunzel’s hair into her eyes, which shine like spring come again as she laughs and smooths the wispy brunette strands out of her face; and all the turmoil of the past week fades before the plain happiness in her smile.

“What do you want to do today, Cass?” Rapunzel asks. “I dragged you all over the place on the Day of Hearts; it’s only fair you get to do the same.”

“Really?” she drawls. “Well _I_ think Fitzherbert should sign up for the grab.”

“I am… _not_ doing that.”

“Oh, but Eugene, _Rapunzel_ designed the winner’s seal this year!” Cassandra clasps her hands and affects a look of wide-eyed innocence—or tries to; she suspects the smirk fighting its way onto her face ruins it. “Don’t you want to _support_ her?”

“Hey now—”

“ _I’ll_ sign up,” Lance announces. He loops his arm around Eugene’s shoulders with a conspiratorial wink in her direction. “Sounds like good fun—and _you_ can be my partner, Eugene! Just like old times.”

“I’m beginning to regret letting you two meet,” Eugene says, dry; but he throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll grab that gopher—anything for you, Sunshine.”

Rapunzel rises onto her tip-toes to peck his cheek. “Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I’ll do it—on one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“Cass, if me and Lance win, you’ve gotta say something nice about me.” He grins. “I wanna see if the shock makes you shrivel up and—”

“Deal,” Cassandra says.

“…You know, I’m _honestly_ a bit insulted you didn’t even hesitate.”

She’s on the brink of snarking back when another voice cries, “Cass! Eugene, H- hey, guys!”

Vague familiarity stirs in her memory as she turns, and the pieces click into place when she finds the gangly, dark-haired boy waving enthusiastically at them in front of the smithy.

Varian.

“Over here! Hi!”

Eugene lifts his hand in a bemused answering wave, and the kid beams as they all weave through the morning bustle to join him on the opposite side of the street. Xavier emerges from the yard, too, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Ah, good morning, everyone. Your Highness.”

“Your— _Oh!!_ ” Varian’s eyes pop in realization. He makes an awkward bow or curtsy or _something_ in Rapunzel’s direction, stammering, “I’m so sorry, Princess, I- I didn’t realize—”

“Call me Rapunzel,” she says, lips twitching. “I’m guessing you’re Varian?”

“Yes!” He snaps upright like his spine is spring-loaded and radiates awe up at Rapunzel. “I, heh, I-I see my reputation proceeds me, Your— _Rapunzel._ ” A nervous laugh bubbles past his lips, and he shifts from foot to foot with a manic sort of happiness while Rapunzel introduces him to Lance, Stan, and Pete. Still, he looks better than he did the night Cassandra met him; all the hollowed-out worry filled in with excitement, and even his scar looks better absent the fearful pallor in his cheeks.

“…But, but hold on, kid, why are you— _here?_ ” Eugene asks.

“Oh! Well, I took your advice,” Varian says blandly, fiddling with the goggles he’s using to push his bangs out of his eyes. “Dad and I talked about the, hn, the rock… problem, and he figured it’d help if I, you know, got out of Herrfeld for a while. Away from them.”

“Quirin is an old friend of mine,” Xavier adds, patting the kid’s shoulder. “So we made arrangements for Varian to come and work as my apprentice for the winter. He arrived yesterday evening; I have just been showing him around the smithy.”

“Well hey! Not too shabby, kid.”

“But,” Xavier continues, smiling, “as it’s a holiday, I’m not planning on lighting any forges today. If you would like to catch up with your friends, Varian…”

Varian goes pink. “Well– I-I’m not sure I really count as—”

“The more the merrier!” Eugene says at once. “We were just on our way down to the fair; why don’t you come along?”

Smiling bashfully, Varian stutters out an agreement and trots along at Eugene’s side as they bid their goodbyes to Xavier and continue on their way. For the remainder of the walk down to Baird Park, he treats them all to rambling chatter about using alchemy to modify the blacksmith’s quenching oil so it can produce steel of superior strength without sacrificing flex, seeming delighted to have found in Rapunzel an attentive audience for his theories. Cassandra nods along and keeps half an eye on the rest of the crowd flowing down the island toward the fair—if the Separatists _are_ here today, Stan and Pete seem too engrossed in their quibbling to notice.

But nothing suspicious catches her eye.

It’s only been three days since she let Caine leave with the Journal. On foot, the trip to the old Saporian border takes almost that long, and the Separatists lurk much further south than that. Chances are Caine hasn’t even delivered the book yet.

 _Because you were_ so great _at predicting her moves before._

She hides a wince.

_Just don’t get too comfortable._

When they reach the park, Lance and a jokingly reluctant Eugene peel away, ambling over to the stands to join the queue to sign up for the gopher grab, and Rapunzel links her arms around Cassandra’s and Varian’s. “What do you say we find out where Lance found that apple.”

“Monty’s,” Cassandra says absently. Baird’s Park is crowded, but—perhaps because of Stan and Pete, who probably look intimidating to anyone out of earshot—the people give them a wide berth.

_Good._

“Who’s Monty?”

“…You know, Monty?” This earns her a politely blank look she recognizes from Nigel’s deportment lessons, and Cassandra blinks. “Don’t tell me I forgot to introduce you to Monty, Raps! He’s _only_ the best candy-maker in the Seven Kingdoms—c’mon, he’s always got a stall set up for the fair.”

“I think sweets have been pretty low on the priority list since I got here,” Rapunzel says dryly, as Cassandra nudges them along. Then, in a more imperious tone, “I’ll forgive the oversight.”

“I’m _so_ glad.”

“Good old Uncle Monty,” Stan sighs behind them. “I could really go for some of those licorice twists right now—”

“Stan, we’re on _duty,_ ” Pete replies, aghast, and Cassandra catches Varian’s eye and smirks.

“Have you got any money, kid? I’ll get you something if you don’t.”

“I—! You don’t have to—”

“Save it.” She reaches around Rapunzel to aim a playful swat at the back of his head. “Just a sweet. No need to make a thing out of it.”

Flushing, he mumbles a thank you. As they amble along the edges of the crowd, Rapunzel says, “You know, I’d never even tasted candy before this summer,” and that sends Varian careening into an exuberant retelling of the time he, aged five, almost burned his house down trying to replicate the caramel toffee his mom let him try for his birthday; and when he’s finished they both turn to stare at Cassandra, expectant.

 _Her_ first encounter with sweets ended in tears and a sticky haircut that left her looking like a bedraggled mop for weeks, but they don’t need to know that. “Oh, look, there’s Monty’s stall—”

“Cass!”

She smirks.

Monty’s stalls is identifiable more by the noisy throng surrounding it than anything else. His cheerful boom of, “Alright, alright, you’ve talked me into it! Every kid can have one free sample!” is met with delighted squeals as Cassandra guides their little group into the crowd. It thins in fits and starts until they reach the front of the line and the wares come into view; the stall creaks under the weight of its displays, trays of chocolates and toffees shaped like little gophers, jars of licorice and candied apples and peppermint sticks, racks of colorful paper packets labeled in Monty’s neat, blocky handwriting. She hears Rapunzel’s breath catch in quiet delight, and Varian looks a bit dazed by the confectionary glory of it all; Cassandra catches Monty’s eye and grins as she reaches for a packet of peppermint humbugs.

“Cassandra! Always nice to see you out of the palace, sweetheart. Oh, it feels like I haven’t seen you around in months.”

“Hey, Monty! Yeah, I’ve been busy—”

“With this lady-in-waiting thing, I’ve heard.” His jovial grin cools several degrees as he glances at Rapunzel, but it’s back again in a flash. “Anyway, what can I get for you? Anything besides the mints, my dear?”

“Whatever the kid wants,” Cassandra says, prodding Varian. “Varian, Monty, Monty, Varian—he’s Xavier’s new apprentice.”

“Ah, that’s right! The boy from Herrfeld.” Monty clasps his hands over his expansive stomach, watching Varian gawk at his display. “Xavier mentioned something about that the other day—interested in smithing, are you, kiddo?”

Varian, who had just begun to reach for one of the chocolate gophers, starts, his expression going blank with just a tinge of panic. “Actually I’m– an alchemist! But Xavier’s work is sort of, s-sort of, you know, th– the properties of metals and, and chemistry, of, um—”

“Relevant,” Cassandra supplies, and relief crashes over his face.

“Yeah! It’s relevant. To what I do. So… Yes. That.”

“Alchemy, huh? Now there’s something you don’t hear about every day. You know, I know this alchemist from Neserdnia—she comes through Herzingen every few years for the expo! Always stops by to chat when she’s in town. Such a nice lady. I could introduce you if she makes it here this spring.”

“ _Really?_ Th- that’d be _amazing!_ I’ve never met another alchemist before—at least, not any willing to talk to me I mean, hn— _thank you!_ ”

Monty nods along while Cassandra pays, but as they step aside and Rapunzel steps up to the counter, his face tightens into a polite grimace. “And what can I do for you, Your Highness?”

“U- um. Hi, Monty?” Rapunzel tries. “It’s– nice? To meet you.”

He gives her a curt nod and waits, silent. Looking rattled, Rapunzel reaches for a candied apple and fumbles open the little coin purse dangling from her belt to pay for it; the abrupt, uncomfortable quiet endures until the three of them peel away from the counter, and Monty greets Stan with what seems to Cassandra like twice his usual verve.

“Wow,” Varian mutters.

“What was _that?_ ” Rapunzel whispers, halfway between worried and incensed. “Why didn’t he—?”

“I don’t know, Raps; I’ve never seen him like that before. He’s normally like, well, you saw.” Wincing, Cassandra tears open her packet of humbugs and offers her one; a measly consolation prize. “Maybe he assumes you’re some bratty princess—maybe it’s just some random petty thing, who knows. Don’t let it ruin your day.”

“But it seemed like he _hated_ me.”

“Aw, hey, Pr— Rapunzel; sometimes people just don’t get along,” Varian says around a mouthful of chocolate. He swallows it all with effort. “I mean, most of the people at home don’t even really talk to me unless they’re buying something from the apothecary, and that’s… fine.”

If the pained look contorting Rapunzel’s face is anything to judge by, she _is_ going to let it ruin her day, but she just grimaces and marches past the next few stalls. “You’re right,” she says, too loudly. “You’re right. And I’m not bothered. I– know that not everyone has to like me, even if– I haven’t given him any reason _not_ to like me—that’s— _fine_ —”

Still muttering under her breath, she storms up to a rickety cart so overburdened with flowers it looks like someone rolled up an entire meadow and put it on display; for a moment she studies the blossoms moodily. Then she blinks, brightening.

“Wait a minute, I know you!”

The vendor jolts, and in a rather strained voice says, “Do you?”

“You gave me that flower the night of the valediction!” Rapunzel cries, beaming—and, yes, Cassandra remembers now; the woman had been wrapped in the same careworn green shawl she wears now, her grey curls wisping out of the same long braid.

While Rapunzel chatters on—“What’s your name? I meant to send a, a thank you note or something, but nobody I asked knew who you were”—the woman glances sidelong at Cass, an arch glint in her heavily-lidded, mossy eyes, and for an instant everything hangs in stillness.

It occurs to her _far_ too late that the flower cart barricades a grated entrance to the labyrinth. The woman lifts her hand, and Cassandra lurches forward—too slow, _too slow_ —

Black mist bursts from the woman’s palm with a wet ripping noise. For a second she’s blind with it; greasy and hot against her face—the stench of something acrid mixed with vegetable rot clogs her throat; she can hear Rapunzel coughing, Varian coughing, then the twin _thumps_ of bodies hitting the cobbles.

“ _Raps—!_ ”

The mist clears into an oily grey scrim as she slams her full weight into the cart, but the Separatist witch has already darted clear and the mouth of the labyrinth yawns wide as a tall, masked figure launches out of the shadows and scoops Rapunzel’s body onto his shoulder in one clean motion. People shout—people _scream_ —

The Separatist witch intercepts her with a sharp blow to her chest when she lunges after Rapunzel, and Cassandra staggers back; gangrenous spots worm across her vision, black, green—the Separatists and Rapunzel vanish into the labyrinthine shadows.

_No._

Cassandra scrambles after them, hurtling into the unknown darkness after the echoing sounds of their footsteps, the witch snarling something in Saporian too choppy with exertion to understand, and why why _why_ won’t Dad let her carry a sword—parrying dagger in her hand almost without thought, her horrible silken skirt hiked up past her knees—she _runs_ —

The tunnel pinches into a new direction. Cassandra skids around the turn and there’s a _door_ —no, an archway, the frame woven of pulsating roots laced with sickly reddish light—and it opens _somewhere else._

In the last second before she hurtles through it, she glimpses beachgrass and craggy stones and a towering, ancient tree stark black against the bright, colorless expanse of the sky.

The world _writhes._

A frantic smear of green light and inked shadow—a feeling like silt pouring down her throat—Cassandra retches, tasting rancid brine, everything _burning_ —

And then she’s through, and she hits the dry loam on the other side face-first. Her head spins. Speckles of black bloom and fade in her eyes while she clutches the roiling ground, spluttering and coughing on her own nausea. _Some rescue._

When she can bear to lift her head from the ground, Rapunzel’s kidnapper has a sword leveled between her eyes. His mask hides everything but a strip of tanned skin, hazel eyes narrowed to slits beneath heavy brows.

“Aren’t you a little hero,” he drawls. “Too bad for you we Separatists don’t have time for such—”

“Andrew.” The Separatist witch doesn’t even clear the tops of his shoulders, but he winces when she lays a hand against his arm. “Ā maómīm sāghē shogh mēdo thaegheidh o sā min ze.”

She’s still reeling too much to make sense of the thickly-accented Saporian Andrew rattles back in response, but she gets the gist. _Don’t harm her_ —something about the Journal, and traitors, and—

Dizzy, Cassandra curls her fingers around the hilt of the dagger that slipped through her grasp during her disorienting fall through the archway, and while Andrew is distracted, she lunges past his sword to sink her blade into his thigh.

He screams. She yanks the dagger free and comes up swinging, catching his wild cut in her cross-guard— _twist_ —and slamming her shoulder into his chest as she hooks one foot around the ankle of his injured leg. His grip breaks, he falls, and Cass snatches the sword out of the air.

Heart pounding, she steps away from Andrew, leveling her sword at the witch’s throat. The witch smiles.

The archway brought them into a large henge nestled at the knife-blade end of a promontory; the sea opens to the horizon, churning and grim and somehow hungry. An enormous yew grows from the jardinière in the center of the henge, and Rapunzel lies prone beneath it, unconscious still. A pair of cloaked figures are halfway through binding her with vines that seem to have been cut from the growth devouring the henge-stones, but they’ve stopped now, frozen by their leader’s predicament.

Cassandra pants into the heavy silence, teeth bared.

“Let her _go._ ”

Slowly, the witch tips her head, never looking away from Cass. “Hānīm tháosh min sā lísha,” she murmurs, _don’t worry about me,_ and her remaining associates begin to fumble with the vines again. Andrew moans, gripping his injured leg.

Grinding her teeth together, Cassandra digs her feet into the soft earth, and snarls, “I said, _hānīm zhiáś ze!_ ”

If the confirmation that she can understand what they’re saying means anything to the Separatists, they give no sign of it; _something_ flickers through the witch’s eyes, anger maybe, but it’s gone before Cassandra can identify it. Still in Saporian, she murmurs, “Cassandra, isn’t it? The Commander’s… ward.”

“His _daughter._ ”

The witch offers her a faint nod, conceding the point, a bitter smile on her lips. “So you’ve come to follow in his footsteps and enshrine your borrowed heritage, then? To slaughter us all with your stolen sword? You do your nation credit.”

“My father doesn’t _slaughter_ —”

A sharp peal of laughter drowns the rest of her defense; an empty sound, barren and twisted and dry as old bones. “I’m sure _he_ thinks himself an innocent man,” the witch says, with icy mirth. “Nevertheless—” she gestures at Cassandra like that’s some great proof, her expression hardening “—here we stand.”

 _Torin Caine died on a prison barge for stealing bread,_ murmurs a quiet thought in the back of her mind, unhelpfully. Cassandra grips the sword a little tighter, shoving away the whispers of the other names and too-harsh sentences she waded through during her frantic quest to find him.

_They all broke the law—_

“And we have been pushed,” the witch says, “too far. This is bigger than the Separatists now, Cassandra. There is a reckoning on its way that cannot be stopped, cannot be turned aside.” She holds out a hand, offering, plaintive. “You could free yourself from the burdens they’ve given you. You don’t _owe_ Corona anything.”

The same sickening, molten anger that drove her onto this path in the first place sparks again in her gut, and Cassandra hisses, “I’m _more_ than who my parents were.” She presses the point of the sword harder into the witch’s throat, and there’s the beginning of a commotion from the people in cloaks; the witch makes a slight, placating movement with her hand and they settle again, watching out of the depths of their hoods.

“Now let—Rapunzel— _go._ ”

The witch sighs. “Your loyalty is admirable, if misguided.”

Her fingers close into a fist and, too late, Cass feels the vine snaking around her midsection. It snaps tight and yanks her off her feet as she screams, thrashing—clouds of white explode in her eyes as she crashes into a henge-stone. More vines writhe to life, coiling around her limbs and binding her with a grip so implacable she can’t even struggle.

Andrew barks out an ugly laugh. “You _cháthar_ don’t play around. _”_

“Hm.” The witch flexes her fingers, frowning pensively as she works off her gloves, and Cassandra gags as her hand slips free; instead of smooth olive skin, the flesh of her hand is _black,_ pitted and flaking like the rotting hand of a corpse, her fingers clawed and bony and tipped in fingernails stained the color of ink. The stench of decay pours off of it, tainting the harsh wind coming off the sea.

She moves to whisper to her cloaked associates, sparing not even a glance for Rapunzel’s unconscious body. Cassandra heaves against her bindings once more to no avail. An anguished gasp hitches in her throat.

_This is all my fault._

If she’d been smarter, braver, less selfish—if she hadn’t let the agonizing turmoil that followed the Journal’s theft _get_ to her—if she’d paid more attention—if she had just swallowed her pride and her fear and _told someone_ —

Tears blur her eyes. She doesn’t notice Andrew rising unsteadily to his feet and limping toward her until he props himself against the side of the henge-stone. He pulls down his mask with one bloodied hand to reveal a face of hard edges; the vicious hook of a nose, the malevolent slash of a grin, nothing but a well-trimmed beard to soften his jaw.

“So,” he says, almost conversational as he kicks his sword into his hand and returns it to the sheath at his hip. “Cassie—can I call you Cassie?—I just feel I should thank you. Saporia will rise again, and we couldn’t have come this far without you.”

Cassandra can’t even find the breath to spit a curse in his face; she sags in the grip of the vines, watching the witch vault onto the jardinière, dip her befouled hand into one of the rivulets of blood-red sap oozing down the gnarled trunk of the tree.

“I know you don’t appreciate it now,” Andrew continues. “But Caine told us how you let her leave with the Journal—twice. In time, I think you’ll see that your instincts were right. Saporia doesn’t belong to Corona. It never has, and it never will.” He digs his elbow into her side, like they’re _friends,_ like she isn’t lashed to this stone with no choice but to watch in horror as the witch licks sap from her fingers. “You’ll see.”

The witch slips off the jardinière, mouth stained crimson by sap, her hand still glistening with bloody traces of it; she crouches next to Rapunzel and unhooks the curved white knife from her belt.

“ _No—!”_

The witch picks up Rapunzel’s arm and, without preamble, buries the barbed tip of her knife into the small, pink knot of the scar on the Princess’s wrist. And with one smooth movement, she draws the blade down, splitting Rapunzel’s arm open from wrist to elbow.

“ _Rapunzel!_ ”

Blood seeps out and drips into the soil, and as the witch hooks her fingers into the cut, the dry undergrowth around the base of the jardinière stirs. Frail black tendrils creep up between the leaves, quivering as they scent for blood; and the witch makes a quiet noise of satisfaction and _tugs_ on something inside Rapunzel’s arm.

Roots.

White, glistening. The witch pinches more and more of them out of the wound, and when she lowers Rapunzel’s arm to the ground at last, the delicate tendrils rising from the soil pounce like striking vipers—they coil around the roots, burrow into Rapunzel’s bleeding flesh.

The earth rumbles. Whispers of flame lick down the tangle of roots, gold and green and crimson, and the air inside the henge becomes sticky and hot. Screaming, Cassandra wrenches at the vines—a despairing sob rips out of her—

_can’t breathe can’t breath_

_Sun and moon and stars,_ please _—please—_

And something answers.

It’s a stir of fresh sea air in her nose, clarifying and cool; a voice like sunlight on water that slides into her mind without touching her ears: _Yes._

Summer warmth pours into her limbs, and _this time_ the vines tatter and fall like torn cobwebs. Cassandra drops to the ground, tears Andrew’s sword from its sheath, and slams it pommel-first into his stomach before he can react to her sudden freedom. He topples with a loud grunt, and she, howling fury, launches herself at the witch.

Vines erupt from the soil as she and the other two Separatists scatter away from Rapunzel. Cassandra leaps to evade them with a speed she didn’t know she possessed—the sword flashes silver—the vines fall, and fall, and fall as she hacks her way through the writhing thicket barring her from Rapunzel until at last she slices through the squirming nest of roots binding her Princess to the earth.

Rapunzel awakes with a scream, the remaining vines go suddenly slack, and for the second time, Cassandra levels her sword at the witch’s throat.

Surf crashes against the cliffs below. Cassandra pants, and the witch pants with her, her expression shifting from rage into a cool, evaluating stare. Blood beads down her throat from the tip of the sword; she lifts her hands in surrender, inch by inch.

“Hānodh rir dhām,” she says in a bare whisper. _All of you, go._

“C- Cass?” Rapunzel’s voice isn’t much louder than the witch’s, almost inaudible beneath the noise of the surf and the soft footsteps of the other three Separatists retreating from the henge.

Cassandra doesn’t dare look away from the witch, but she pitches her voice into soothing tones and murmurs, “It’s going to be okay, Raps. It’ll– t- try to get some pressure on that cut.”

Quietly, still in Saporian, the witch says, “I surrender. Let the others go, and I will return with you to Herzingen. Submit to my arrest and—” she smiles a smile sharp enough to cut “—my no doubt hasty execution.”

“Or how about I just kill you now?”

“In front of your Princess?” The witch nods into Cassandra’s silence. “No. You may let me go—or trust my word that I’ll go peacefully. It’s your choice, Cassandra.”

Nothing moves but Rapunzel, whom Cassandra can see swaying in the corner of her eye. The wind has stilled into breathless quiet.

“Turn around,” Cassandra rasps. “Put your hands behind your back.”

What other choice does she have? Much as she hates the thought of letting the witch stay anywhere _near_ Rapunzel, she can’t– keep clinging to decisions that felt easier, _safer_ when she made them is how she got them all into this mess in the first place.

 _If she tries_ anything _in the tunnels, I’ll run her through._

As she tears a length of fabric from her petticoat and binds the witch’s hands with it, Cassandra repeats that vow to herself over and over again until it starts to feel true.

## ❦

The walk back to Herzingen feels… strange. As if the ground is tilted sideways beneath her feet. Cass makes the witch walk ahead of them, prodding her with the sword whenever her footsteps falter, and doesn’t complain when Rapunzel sags against her.

All the while, the incision the witch made in her arm _burns._ Cass bandaged it up for her, helped her tear out the- the _roots,_ but stopping the bleeding doesn’t help much with the pain and every twitch makes the wound light up with fire; by the time they emerge from the labyrinth, dusty and blood-stained and exhausted, Rapunzel’s cheeks feel raw from the steady drip of tears.

There’s a ringing in her ears. She stumbles as Cass guides her up the stairs, out of the palace undercroft, through the winding hallways to a sturdy oak door she’s never seen before.

Cass doesn’t knock. She shoves the door open with her boot, pushes the witch through, and takes Rapunzel gently by the elbow to lead her into what turns out to be an office, large but stuffy, crowded with people. Mom and Dad. Uncle Gilbert. Eugene, Lance. Sir Peter.

“ _Rapunzel—_ ”

Time smears together; they step through the door, and Rapunzel blinks, and then she’s limp in Mom’s arms, shivering.

“What is this?” Uncle Gilbert, spitting out each word from very far away—Dad, crying her name, Eugene’s exclamation of _Sunshine_ —

And Cassandra, sounding as exhausted as Rapunzel feels. “The Separatists attacked through the tunnel under Baird Park. Four of them; this woman, a man named Andrew, and two others whose faces I didn’t see. The others took orders from her. She used magic to knock Rapunzel out, and to open an archway to… I think it must’ve been Janus Point. A henge, with a tree. They tried to perform some sort of ritual using Rapunzel—she’s hurt—I stopped it.”

Commotion, after that. Sir Peter calls for guards, who haul the witch away for further questioning. Mom hurries her away, and the last she sees of Cass is her friend wiping blood off her scratched cheeks while Uncle Gilbert offers her a stiff, stiltedly formal thank you.

Then she closes her eyes, and the hazy, fractal colors of the dream swirl up to sweep her away again. She’s aware of sinking into Eugene’s arms, and nothing more.


	16. Chapter 15: Autumn Frosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how, before the Prologue, I said there'd be _one_ minor character death? Well. Um.
> 
> CW: Murder pt 2.

###  **Chapter 15: Autumn Frosts**

Damp smoke burns Rapunzel’s throat as she splashes down the streets. Rainwater flows between the cobblestones, steaming; the blossoming night smells of wet ash. The dark waterfront—the black sea—the dead braziers breathing noxious fog—

She trips over a loose cobble and crashes into the ground, where stones bite like teeth; and her skin crumbles and slender roots unfurl and drag her down and down and _down_ into the drowning soil, the hungry earth.

Laughter in her ear.

Rapunzel kicks, clawing, spitting through the grit in her mouth, and her cocoon of mud breaks apart; she lies gasping on a lawn of ash and dust and spindling frost. Trembling, she pushes herself to her feet and crawls to the only landmark in sight: a tall, barbed cage hewn of rough black stone. From inside it comes the sound of beating wings; a plaintive chirp.

A flash of white feathers through the cracks.

 _Little lark. Little flower._ Laughter; Gothel's. Fingers brush her hair, and Rapunzel screams, but when she jerks around, all she sees is the empty, lifeless night.

The caged bird trills.

_You lit the beacons, little lark._

_Shall we see what happens when they die?_

## ❦

Rapunzel whimpers as Arianna smooths the hair away from her brow. It’s quiet in her bedroom; no sounds but the whisper of wind past the tower, the lonesome tick of the clock on the mantle, the soft, restless chirping Pascal makes as he paces the headboard. Her daughter shivers beneath her heap of blankets; her hand twitches in Arianna’s.

The frantic scrambling for a doctor after Rapunzel collapsed produced, in the end, helpless shrugs and an assurance that this is no more than the sleep of exhaustion, but terror still has her by the throat. She strokes Rapunzel’s hair again, fingers trembling.

Frederic and Eugene have been in and out all afternoon, united in fretting as they are in almost nothing else, and Cassandra trudged in with a dinner tray early in the evening and stared at Rapunzel in ragged misery until Arianna’s concern overwhelmed her appreciation for the company and she told the young woman to _please_ go get some _sleep_ —but for now, she’s alone and buckling under the weight of her fear.

“Hey, Ari.”

She starts. The noise of the door opening hadn’t registered, and it’s a shock to look up and find her sister standing at the threshold.

“I– Willow…”

“My ship made port half an hour ago,” Willow says, in the strained tone that is the closest she ever gets to a whisper. She crosses the room on tip-toes and folds herself onto the bed next to Arianna, fiddling with the end of one of her braids. “Sir Peter told me what– happened.”

In the tumult of hearing her daughter had been kidnapped _again_ and the panicky haze of the next hour or so before Cassandra brought her back, she had—forgotten her sister’s impending arrival, and she has just enough spare room in her thoughts to feel a pang of guilt about that, but before she can apologize, Willow scoots closer and pulls her into a tight hug.

They sit like that in silence for a while.

Willow’s the same as she ever is; all colors, all jingling bracelets, all random mixtures of perfumes that make Arianna’s eyes water from the overpowering war of citrusy and floral smells wafting off of her; if it’s possible for a soul to be _loud,_ then Willow’s is screaming at the top of its lungs. It’s like finding a patch of dry, solid ground to stand on in the midst of a terrible storm.

“How is she?” Willow asks at length.

“The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong,” Arianna murmurs. “Besides– well.” She strokes her thumb against the crisp edge of the bandage swathing her daughter’s arm. Watching the doctors clean and dress the cut, imagining _that woman_ cutting her daughter’s skin with that _filthy_ hand—even now it makes her head spin with rage so intense she can scarcely breathe. “She’s… she’s just tired.”

She feels Willow nod against her shoulder. “She’ll be fine, Ari.”

Rapunzel stirs in her sleep again, making a low fretful noise as she rolls her head over the pillow, and Arianna bites her lip as she squeezes her daughter’s hand. “I know. But– I…”

Worry still eats her alive. She sighs.

“I’ll sit with you,” Willow says. “Until she wakes up.”

## ❦

 _Dear Dad,_ Varian writes.

Then he stops to gnaw on the tip of his quill for a few minutes, at a loss. So much has _happened_ and it feels like all the words are crowding up inside his brain, shoving and tripping over each other with eagerness to get out and any sentence he writes will be a garbled mixture of three or four thoughts combined. He sighs, scrubs at his forehead for a moment, trying to wrangle it all into some order.

_Well, when in doubt, start with the good news, right?_

Poking his tongue between his teeth, he blots his quill and writes:

_You wouldn’t believe how much has happened! Mr. Besim is as nice as you said (he knows_ _so many_ _stories) even if he won’t let me handle any steel yet (because it’s “dangerous,” I’m starting to see why you and him are friends!) I’ve already learned a lot. Did you know there’s a whole technique behind lighting the forges? It’s a bit like heating up a crucible but a lot more complicated. I set my gloves on fire the other day but Mr. Besim said that’s basically a blacksmith’s rite of passage so it was fine._

_Anyway this weekend I went to the Goodwill Festival with Princess Rapunzel (I am on_ _first name terms_ _with Princess Rapunzel now, can you believe it?!) and Eugene Fitzherbert (he’s her boyfriend, I told you about him, remember?) and Cass Morgenstern (who is SO COOL, Dad, she fought a bunch of Separatists by herself AND WON) and Lance Strongbow (what a great name, right?) and that was fun until the part where we got attacked by those Separatists I mentioned._

_Well, Rapunzel did, anyway. I don’t really remember what happened, I got knocked out and the next thing I knew Lance was carrying me back to Mr. Besim’s, which was pretty embarrassing, but the Separatists used some sort of gas that knocked a bunch of people out, so at least I wasn’t the only one, right?_

_I’m fine though. I had some weird dreams for a couple nights but no worse than the dreams about the rocks, which by the way—you were right, they HAVE stopped now that I’m out of Herrfeld. I feel a lot better. I miss you and Ruddiger and Prometheus, though. Give them both an apple from me?_

_Lance and Eugene and Cass all came down to check on me the other day. Rapunzel didn’t, she’s recuperating and I guess her dad is still figuring out security arrangements or something for the next time she leaves the palace so, she didn’t come, but, so, the point is, I guess I have friends now? It’s unexpected but nice!_

_Mr. Besim let me set up a little lab in the back of the forge and he said I can use it with his supervision so I’m going to continue my experiments with insulating foam because I think if I can get the formula right it’ll make for a big improvement on the forges’ heat retention. Wish me luck! I promise not to blow up the smithy._

_Well I think that’s everything important. I hope the weather stays nice out there—Mr. Besim says there’s a big storm coming and I am NOT looking forward to that!_

_Love,_

_Varian._

## ❦

“Cassandra Morgenstern.”

If she stands any straighter, she’s going to pull something, but Cassandra lifts her chin, her heart thumping as King Frederic says her name.

“We are all gathered here today to celebrate,” the King says, “because, in the face of grave adversity, you put your life at risk to defend my daughter from those who would do her harm.” He looks past her for a moment, his gaze settling on Rapunzel, sitting in her gilded chair on the other end of the dais with a dazzling smile on her face. Almost a week has gone by since the incident at Janus Point, and but for the white bandage peeking out from beneath her sleeve, she looks untouched by the whole ordeal.

The King smiles, too, and that warmth lingers in his eyes when he turns back to Cassandra. “Your courage, your dedication, and your devotion to Corona turned what might have been an unspeakable tragedy into a triumph, and for that, you have our gratitude.

“For that reason,” he continues, “I present you with this medal.” He turns to Nigel, who cradles the small golden box containing her medal in his hands, and Cassandra feels her mouth go dry as the King opens it gently.

Her medal rests on a cushion of pale blue velvet; a Coronan sun cut in bronze, affixed to its pin by a short length of purple ribbon. It shines in the sunlight falling through the temple windows.

_I don’t deserve this._

“The medal of valor,” the King says. He lifts it for the audience to see, and Cassandra’s vision blurs. She can feel the weight of every stare—of her father, aglow with pride; Lance grinning, Eugene with Rapunzel’s hand clasped in his; Prince Ludolf and the other rectors, looking on with polite smiles; Prince Gilbert, giving her a _thoughtful_ look that makes her feel like a beetle pinned down for study; the happy tears in Queen Arianna’s eyes, and the buoyant joy in her sister’s.

_I don’t—_

“This is the highest token of honor I can bestow,” the King says. “For your service, for your bravery, for saving my daughter’s life, it is well-deserved. You are a credit to your kingdom.”

_I’m not. I’m not._

Every secret, every mistake she’s made in the last four months strangles her protests into silence. But she knows, and that’s enough to make her feel sick to her stomach as the King pins the medal into place.

“Thank you.” The King smiles, and she meets his light blue gaze with nausea churning in her stomach. “I say this not only as your King, but also—and more importantly—as a father. This is but a small gesture in comparison to what you have done for your country, and for my family.”

She bows her head. She curtsies. She lets her mouth shape all the right words to close out the ceremony. She keeps the scream locked down deep inside her heart.

She can’t ever let it out.

_I don’t deserve this._

## ❦

The dungeons burrow deep into the bedrock under the palace, and a bitter chill seeps out of the rough stone walls. Despite the thick padding of his gambeson, Peter shivers as he descends to level three. For the eerie silence as much as the cold; the cells down here never stay occupied for long.

Or—it _should_ be silent. As he emerges from the stairwell, he hears a loud slap—then a cry strained through clenched teeth—and, “—traitorous scum like _you,_ should be grateful—”

A _thump_ —another wrenching gasp of pain, and then Peter reaches the cell and snaps, “Corporal, _what_ do you think you’re doing?”

Corporal Tanner goes very still.

He has the Separatist witch cornered in the back of the cell; she hunches against the wall, breathing hard as she clutches her side. In the abrupt stillness she slides down, inch by inch, a slow collapse.

“Seeing to her arm, Sir,” Tanner says stiffly. “She resisted. Sir.”

Peter sighs. The Corporal isn’t much older than Cassandra. Old enough to remember the Socona poisonings, the reports of unrest that have trickled in from the south ever since—but too young to see past the fires of his anger. He’d leapt to sign up for Prince Gilbert’s task force, and if the Watch weren’t so overstretched Peter wouldn’t have put him on duty down here.

“So,” Peter says, letting disgust bleed into his voice, “you thought you’d give her a few _more_ injuries to think about?”

”Sir—”

“I don’t _care_ what she does, Tanner, we _do not_ assault our prisoners. Not in my Watch.” He lets himself inside the cell with a jangle of his keys. “Go home,” he adds. “Spend the rest of the week reviewing the Compendium. If there’s a second incident, it’s suspension without pay; third, and you’re off the force for good. Do I make myself clear?”

Tanner shoots him a sulky glower, but in the end he mutters, “Yes, Sir,” before he skulks his way out of the cell. Once he’s out of sight, Peter rubs the weariness out of his eyes and turns to examine the prisoner.

A gangrenous stink oozes off her, noxious in the stale, cold air. Peter swallows against the roil of nausea as the stench crawls into his throat; she cradles the afflicted arm against her chest, rigid with discomfort. They’d brought a medic in for a cursory examination the day Cassandra brought her in, but he’d just shrugged, remarked upon the unsanitary conditions that must have bred such an infection, and advised them to keep it clean until her execution.

It’s a task she’s been making… _difficult,_ in the days since.

“I’m sorry,” Peter murmurs. He crouches in front of her, movements slow.

She doesn’t move; her coarse grey hair droops in lank waves that hide most of her face, but he can still see the fresh bruise ripening on her brow, and he feels almost as sick from anger as from the smell.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice as gentle as he can make it. In over a week she hasn’t spoken a single word, and every request or order they give her is met with flat indifference; if Cassandra hadn’t mentioned the woman’s chattiness at Janus Point, Peter might have concluded she was deaf or mute.

As it is, her silent, stubborn refusal strikes him more as childish than anything. A pitiful effort to prolong her dwindling days by withholding information about her co-conspirators—but even then she lives on borrowed time—and Peter can never quite shake the feeling that she’s _waiting_ for something.

“Please,” he tries again. “I need to check your arm.”

She lifts her head a fraction; just enough to show him the cold disdain in her hazel eyes and the faint touch of a sneer at the corner of her mouth. Peter holds her gaze as he reaches for the crumpled cloth and small bottle of ointment Tanner left on the cot, but his hopeful offering meets with nothing but silence.

He takes the deepest breath he can stomach and forces it all out through his nose. “Believe it or not,” he says, fighting not to let his frustration show, “I want to help you.” Cassandra said the woman seemed reasonable, for a Separatist. Certainly docile enough to surrender and submit until their return to Herzingen; a far cry from _this._ “I’m _trying_ to help you. My daughter is Saporian; I know what it’s like—”

She spits. It splatters his boot, and Peter grinds his teeth together.

 _What good does acting like this do for your people?_ he wants to ask. The situation in southern Corona has done nothing but grow more fraught in the past two decades, and every time the Separatists incite violence, the kingdom lurches another inch closer to civil war; and no one pays a steeper price for it than ordinary, innocent Saporians.

_Like Cassandra._

His heart clenches. He says, “Please, let me clean your arm.”

If her eyes were cold before, they’re chips of hardened ice now. The witch sets her jaw as she sinks into a more defensive crouch. Peter returns her defiant stare with a weary one of his own.

She _fought_ the first time they tried to clean it, and when they pinned her down and scrubbed away the grime caked onto her rotting flesh, she settled into a stare so frozen with malice that he felt almost a twinge of guilt for all the effort. Every time since, she’s sat in mute, rigid defiance until they pry her arm free and—he cannot for the life of him fathom what she hopes to accomplish, unless she thinks death from sepsis a better fate than the gallows.

Or maybe it pains her enough to make letting it fester less arduous than washing it; the necrosis begins in her fingertips and crawls well past her elbow, and Peter can only imagine how much it _hurts._

He sighs. “I’m going to leave these here,” he says, slowly, setting the cloth and the little bottle in front of her. “I won’t… force you, but use it, please.”

Nothing.

Peter gets to his feet. The witch doesn’t move as he slips out of her cell, doesn’t make a sound; but the harsh sound of shattering glass chases him up the corridor. When he glances over his shoulder, he finds the bottle smashed on the floor outside her cell, the greasy ointment glinting in the candlelight.

Shaking his head, Peter trudges up the steps.

On his way out of the dungeons, he stops to inform the Sergeant on duty of Tanner’s suspension, and of the need to send someone down with a broom to clean up the broken glass; then he mounts the stairs to the ground level and heads for his office, bracing himself for the conversation to come.

Cassandra is already there, looking as harried as Peter himself feels; he manages a small smile as he tugs the door shut behind him and says, “Sorry to’ve kept you waiting.”

She shrugs. “You’re busy. I get it.”

Nodding, Peter unbuckles his helmet and lifts it off his head, groaning as he rifles his hand through his hair. “Still. We– haven’t had the chance to talk in an… unofficial capacity since you rescued the Princess.”

First there had been the witch to deal with—fruitless interrogations—arguments over how long to wait for her to break her silence before keeping her alive becomes too great a risk—and then Cassandra had given a formal statement, and so had Princess Rapunzel, and while King Frederic made noise about a small ceremony to reward Cassandra’s bravery, Peter had been in the tunnels beneath Baird Park, searching for any sign of the magical doorway his daughter described.

Cassandra tilts her head, acknowledging the point. She doesn’t look… happy, the way she had during his toothless scolding for the Strongbow incident, and that worries him.

“I want you to know,” Peter says carefully, “that I couldn’t be prouder of you. When the Princess was endangered, you acted with the same bravery and quick thinking I would expect from any of my men.”

He half-expects that to provoke a pointed comment about her joining the Watch, but Cassandra just clasps her hands together and looks away with a mutter of, “It doesn’t– feel right.”

“How so?”

Her face contorts into a grimace. “There were _four_ of them, Dad! I shouldn’t have— she surrendered, but she _didn’t have to._ What if it was all just a- a trick?”

“I don’t see how it could be.”

“She has _magic,_ and I brought her into the palace.”

“The Separatists have maps of the tunnels,” Peter points out. She flinches. “If their aim were to infiltrate the palace, wouldn’t they have done so in a less… convoluted way?”

Cassandra looks away, her jaw working hard. “I just—”

“You’re worried,” Peter says. “It’s understandable. These are… worrying times. But you shouldn’t let that overshadow your accomplishments.” Her shoulders twitch in a jerky shrug, like she’s fighting against the urge to hunch, and Peter sighs. “You got… lucky. I can’t deny that. But you also rescued the Princess. And I have… something for you.”

She lifts her gaze from her intertwined fingers as he tugs open the drawer of his desk and produces the badge waiting inside. Her morose, fretful expression goes blank when he hands it to her, and for a moment she cradles it in her palm and stares at it in mute surprise.

“I have… discussed it with the King,” Peter says, studying her. Two weeks ago, a gesture like this would’ve left her beside herself with joy, and it _disturbs_ him that he doesn’t know what changed. “He agrees that, perhaps, everyone is best served by equipping you to… better defend the Princess.”

“You’re… making me a member of the Watch?” Cassandra asks, in a tiny, disbelieving voice. “Just- just like that?”

“Yes– and. No.” Peter folds his hands over his desk, frowning. “You would be exempt from most regular duties—guard work, patrols, so forth—and continue to serve in your capacity as lady-in-waiting to the Princess. A traditional security detail is… not sufficient for her needs. But– you’d be formally in the employ of the King’s Watch, with all that entails.”

“Dad—”

She breaks herself off, her brow furrowing as she turns the badge over in her hands. He holds his breath and waits.

At length she takes a deep breath and mutters, “You suspected me. After the Journal was stolen.”

He winces. “I– Cassandra, honey—”

“Because—I’m Saporian,” she says jerkily. “You keep– you always say it doesn’t matter. But it… _does_. No one talks about it—but–” Her breath rasps, a pitiful almost-laugh, hollow. “There aren’t any Saporians in the Watch.”

No. There aren’t. None have ever applied, but that feels like the wrong answer, somehow, and for a moment Peter can do nothing but stare, feeling helpless. “I didn’t,” he manages, and it sounds feeble even to his own ears. “Suspect you, sweetheart—but… Prince Gilbert, and- the King…”

“They did,” Cassandra whispers.

“I never wanted you to– I… wanted to… spare you. From this, from– there has always been… resistance, to…”

“That shouldn’t have—” she says, closing her fingers around the badge. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again her voice shudders with the effort of keeping a level tone. “You— you let me think _I_ wasn’t good enough for you. That if I just– tried a little harder, you’d— never _mind._ That’s not– _sparing,_ anything.”

“Cassandra—”

She stands up so fast her stool clatters to the ground. “Just—stop. I’m– I’ll accept.” She indicates the badge with a bleak smile. “For Rapunzel’s sake. But I– just– I need to go.”

“Honey—”

But she’s gone; and as the door slams behind her, Peter slumps, letting his head fall against the back of the chair. The months since the Princess returned have been hard on her, he knew that, and he… knew, too, how much joining the Watch _meant_ to her. How hard she would take it if she knew her parentage stood in her way.

Knowing doesn’t make it… easier, to see her hurting, and know there’s nothing he can do to make it right.

## ❦

_Cassandra—_

_Heard what happened at Janus Point. It’s caused a real stir down here—handing over the book, then stabbing the Separatists in the back! No one’ll shut up about whose side you’re on. But_ _I_ _know._

_Do you?_

_You did me a favor, so here’s one in return: Watch your back. Īm gháiah ān min éahean, honey._

_Cheers,_

_Moira._

For what feels like the hundredth time, Cassandra crushes the note into her palm and glares at the floor. Of all the _useless—_ _It’s not over until it’s over— w_ _hat is_ that _supposed to mean?_

She woke this morning to the chiming song of the glass bird, and the note has been burning a hole in her thoughts all day. When Dad asked her to stop by his office before dinner, she’d entertained vague plans of showing it to him—coming clean about… everything—but…

_Do you?_

Even if she crawls out of the pit she dug herself, all it takes is one Separatist cracking under interrogation and the whole thing crumbles; she’s a traitor, she’s a _traitor,_ and her father’s pride and the King’s gratitude and her hollow medal and the badge sitting like a stone in her pocket are all tainted with the stench of her betrayal. Victory tastes like ash.

Cold air trickles through her window; the fire in the hearth crackles as Cassandra tosses Caine’s note into it. Flames lick the paper.

_Watch your back._

She slips the badge out of her pocket and turns it over in her hands. Firelight glints off the rays of the embossed sun for a moment before she sighs and sets the badge on her desk. It doesn’t have any place in what she’s about to do.

After dinner, she played a few rounds of chess with Rapunzel while Eugene watched and offered them both dreadful advice; until the sky darkened and it grew late enough to excuse herself into the private sanctuary of her room. Cassandra smooths over that memory as she slips out of her dress and into trousers, a dark tunic, draws a cloak around her shoulders and pulls the cowl over her head. _This is for Rapunzel._

Not for herself, not for the curiosity or fears eating her alive. _Rapunzel_.

Rapunzel, who makes putting her whole life on the line worth it.

Avoiding the guards is harder than it used to be. She takes her time through the palace halls, ears pricked for the telltale sound of footsteps around every corner, the soft clank of armor, the shadow of a crested helmet—until she reaches the undercroft and tucks herself into the labyrinth with a quiet sigh of relief.

 _Dad,_ she muses, as she slips deeper into the utter darkness inside the tunnels, _should really post a guard down here._

But she doesn’t—want to think of her father right now.

Left, then left, then a long, slow, spiraling incline. Right, and left again. Cassandra remembers the first time she found her way into the palace dungeons; eleven years old, and the first unpleasant shock had fast given way to the thrill of doing something forbidden—even if she never worked up the nerve to do more than spy on the patrolling guards through the grate.

Tonight, she runs her fingers along the cold, grimy stones until she finds the catch that makes the grate unlock with a quiet _click,_ waits for the night guard to shuffle through his patrol, and then crawls out of the labyrinth.

_Five minutes. Make it count._

It’s freezing. Every stone seems to bleed cold as she tip-toes along the corridor to the witch’s cell.

She’s not… sure what to expect. To find the witch curled beneath the threadbare blanket every prisoner gets, maybe shivering in her sleep, maybe whimpering or crying like she’s heard some do when they know there’s nothing but a noose in their future.

But the witch is awake, sitting upright on her miserable wooden cot with the blanket folded and untouched. Her eyes glitter in the candlelight; and she regards Cassandra in cold silence.

Bruises mottle the side of her face, and Cassandra feels the questions she came here to ask wither and die in her throat.

“Sirin,” the witch says abruptly. Cassandra jolts as her voice cuts through the frigid air, dry and soft.

“What?”

“My name,” she murmurs in Saporian. “It’s Sirin.”

“Why are you telling me?”

Sirin offers her a faint, joyless smile and says nothing. Cassandra edges closer, close enough to feel the chill radiating off the old iron bars as she stares into the cell. The only reason Sirin is still alive is she hasn’t yet broken her silence, and she must know by now that Cassandra’s loyalty, however frayed, belongs to Corona and always will.

“ _Why?_ ” she whispers again. Sirin just raises her eyebrows, pointed, until Cassandra grits her teeth and repeats herself in Saporian: “Átam?”

Shrugging, Sirin gets to her feet, her every movement stiff and careful. As she limps across the cell to wrap her fingers around the bars, Cassandra shifts from foot to foot, uneasy. Members of the King’s Watch aren’t supposed to get—rough—with prisoners, but—

“Does he treat you well?” Sirin asks, quiet, still in Saporian. “The Commander.”

No. _No,_ she is _not_ doing this, not tonight, not _ever,_ not with a _Separatist._ Bad enough she let Caine get under her skin— “Yeah,” she snaps, voice flat. “And I _told you_ I’m more than who my parents were—I’m not interested in—you can’t just—” Fists clenching, she forces her voice to stay low, wary of alerting the guards to her presence. “Just because my parents were Saporian—”

“You are also Saporian,” Sirin says. “It’s in your blood. Your face. Your heart—must you join the battle for our liberation because of it? Of course not.” She tilts her head, resting her brow against the bars, sickening pity in her eyes. “But is loyalty to Corona worth sacrificing your heritage?”

“ _Sacrificing?_ My parents were Separatist murderers—some _heritage!_ ”

She whips away from the cell, stalking back toward the grate— _stupid_ to even come down here, _stupid_ to think she might learn anything valuable—but she’s not gone more than two steps when Sirin whispers, “Murderers. Is– is that what they told you?”

And fury slices through her, white hot; Cassandra whirls around, closing the distance to the cell in a single stride. “What would _you_ call selling poisoned crops?” she hisses. “People _died._ ”

“Poisoned? No.” Sirin slips a hand through the bars and seizes Cassandra’s wrist; her rotting fingers boiling with the heat of infection. “People died in _Saporia,_ too, Cassandra,” she says, her voice low and tight and pleading. “ _Every_ crop between the Pingoras and Artois failed that year, and what little we harvested grew tainted—but n- _nobody_ knew until the sickness started.”

Dread trickles into her heart and snuffs the fires of her anger, leaving nothing but a sick, noxious curl of smoke. _That— no._

“Your parents—” Sirin closes her eyes, doubling her grip on Cassandra’s wrist. “Your parents were not– the only ones who sold to Coronan merchants. But Sholar… always wanted to do the right thing.”

“Th–” Panic fills her throat, chokes her, makes her vision speckle black. “ _No._ You’re _lying._ ”

“I told him not to– I _told_ —” Her voice hitches. “We used to argue all the time, you know; he- he had enough hope for the both of us. He told me not to be _cynical._ And he wrote to Commander Faramond.”

A violent shudder wracks Cassandra’s shoulders. She had asked, once, years ago, how the King’s Watch linked her parents to the poisoning—and her father _had_ mentioned that Sholar Hároham confessed, but—

“I’m not lying, Cassandra,” Sirin whispers. Old, old grief stains her eyes. “Morana was so sick by then, and there were rumors the Queen was, too, and Sholar kept saying if- if _he_ were the King, he’d want to know. My brother was as loyal as Saporians come, and _this—_ ” she squeezes Cassandra’s wrist, her lips pulling into a bleak imitation of a smile “—is how much that loyalty was worth.”

_No._

Cassandra wrenches her arm out of Sirin’s grasp and stumbles away; air darts in and out of her lungs and it feels like drowning; like the rotten ice she’s been skating over her whole life has cracked and plunged her into the raging currents beneath and— _don’t harm her,_ Sirin had said, and Cassandra hadn’t stopped to wonder why, hadn’t questioned why whatever foul magic the witch used to knock Rapunzel and Varian out had left _her_ untouched, but now, _now_ —

It’s too much.

She bolts.

“Cassandra—!”

Echoes of her name rings in her ears as she dives back into the comforting darkness of the labyrinth, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down until her feet carry her to the ladder back up to the undercroft; she sinks against it, clinging to the rungs to keep herself upright as she gasps around the ripping feeling in her chest.

She doesn’t remember her parents; she remembers—a silo, red against the sky; a muddy field; squalling crows picking over the corpse of some small, dead thing—whenever she imagined them, she pictured amalgams of the sneering, glaring faces in her father’s wanted posters, people, _criminals_ with callous indifference in their eyes. Her father saved her from—

_You’re the reason the Separatists don’t let parents join up._

Clamping a hand over her mouth, Cassandra crouches, huddling against the ladder. If her parents _weren’t_ Separatists, if— then—

_She’s lying._

_Tainted crops! How does something like that even—_

_Her_ brother _. She’s my—_

 _She’s a_ Separatist _. She’s_ lying.

_She has to be._

She sits in the dark for a long, long time.

## ❦

An eternity drags by in silence before the guard comes storming down to investigate all the noise. Sirin clutches the bars, breathing ragged, listening to him approach with her eyes dry and sorrow enough to drown in lodged in her throat.

“ _Well?_ ” The guard marches in close to bluster and loom. “Can’t find your tongue in the interview room, but you’ll scream fit to wake the dead in the middle of the—”

Sirin grabs him by the neck and all the _power_ twisted into her flesh strikes like a viper; he gurgles, spasming, and as she digs her nails into his throat she lifts her head and shows him her teeth.

“— _gck_ – _!_ nn—”

“Typical.” She yanks him against the bars with a _clang._ Pitiful choking sounds bubble past his lips, followed by something viscous and black and streaked with blood. “If you offer your hand to a caged wolf, what do you expect to happen?”

The guard wheezes. Piceous liquid dribbles out of his nostrils.

“Witches bite, too,” she says softly.

With her free hand, she tears his keys from the loop on his belt, then lets him drop. While he writhes and the magic slakes its hunger, she tests the keys one by one until she finds the one to unlock her cell.

He dies in the time it takes her to free herself. Runnels of pitch ooze from his nose and mouth, bubbling into soft, bulbous little mushrooms.

She makes her way to the grate Cassandra left ajar and slides into the shadowy tunnel beyond. A virescent spark lights in her palm, casting a dim glow by which she makes her way through the labyrinth. It’s a long, winding, frigid trek from the palace dungeons to the grated entrance by the waterfront, and only the faint, fetid heat of magic keeps her from sinking into a cold-addled stupor.

The raven is waiting for her when she emerges into the foggy night.

It’s a huge and hideous bird, with a drooping mane of greasy feathers and tiny white maggots squirming between its tattered pinions, and it— _she_ —croaks as Sirin closes the grate.

“And what _good did it do?_ ” Sirin mutters.

Another croak, chiding; the raven turns and launches into the air, and the fog parts cleanly in her wake. A narrow path carved through the opaque mist. Somehow it feels like both apology and imperious command.

Smothering a bitter sigh, Sirin follows it. The fog billows around her, obscuring her from view of the guards posted along the bridge, and the raven glides in lazy circles overhead.

Her inky feathers flutter down like snow.


	17. Chapter 16: Planting Stones

###  **Chapter 16: Planting Stones**

Grim silence crushes the air inside the Commander’s office as Cassandra steps inside. Cold light falls through the singular window and a half dozen glances, sidelong and wary, slither against her face; but it all feels distant. Plated in glass. She didn’t sleep last night. After she roused herself enough to leave the tunnels, she stumbled back to her room and watched the snow fall through her window until dawn painted the sky grey.

Pete catches her eye from his post near the back of the room, and he flashes her a tiny thumbs-up. Grateful, Cassandra steps into line next to him, beating down the impulse to fiddle with the small gold buttons of her new uniform.

Her uniform.

The doublet, heavy with the weight of chainmail woven into its inner layers; hastily but not skillfully tailored. Her medal of valor pinned next to the badge over her heart, a thin strip of violet against scarlet wool. Her broadsword hangs at her hip like a faithful companion and it’s all she can do not to grip the hilt as she scans the line of ranking officers assembled nearer to the desk.

The lieutenants—the captains of every constabulary in the city—

Most of them old enough to have been in the Watch during the Socona poisonings. It fills her lungs with the sensation of ice and makes the uniform she spent her whole _life_ craving feel more constricting than any fine gown; her gaze skips from one helmeted head to the next, and she wonders.

There’s no mention of a letter in her parents’ file. No reference to a confession at all. Cassandra’s read it often enough to know; _dozens_ of times, pouring over each word with a desperation to understand, and when her father told her that Sholar Hároham confessed, she hadn’t thought much of the omission. Why record the exact minutia of such a straightforward case?

Except.

Her father stands at his desk, shuffling papers. His jaw works. A vein in his temple throbs. Next to him, Prince Gilbert studies the assembled officers with a wintry smile on his lips.

_Did you know, Dad?_

If Sirin lied—and _of course she lied_ —then she gambled on the absence of proof, or else took a chance on Cassandra not knowing the contents of the Hároham file. And if she told the truth…

_I need to find that letter._

Gilbert clears his throat as the little clock by the window chimes the hour. “Men of the King’s Watch,” he says, as her father straightens up and stares across the room with a tight, wooden expression. “Sergeant Connell is dead.”

Exclamations of surprise or consternation greet this news, but the most Cassandra can dredge out of the cold bog of her thoughts is _tired._ She’s tired.

“He was slain,” Gilbert continues, “with magic, by the Saporian witch, who escaped last night.” This, too, prompts startled cries, and Cassandra feels another pulse of weariness; but the Prince lifts his hands and his voice and carries on with a ruthless edge in his voice. “Until now, King Frederic has been reluctant to meet the Separatist rebellion with the force it deserves, but no longer. His Majesty declared martial law at dawn this morning. Moreover, he has, at last, signed an edict making it unlawful to consort with insurgents, which will enable us to crack down on those Saporians who aid and abet the rebels while pleading lack of affiliation with the _movement_ —” his lips curl “—to escape punishment for their treachery. The counter-insurgency team established two weeks ago will play an outsize role in enforcement of these new laws, and—”

As Cassandra listens, an unfamiliar feeling stirs in the depths of her mind; and lifts its head like some beast hearing the bugle of hunting hounds in the distance. Her whole life—her whole _life_ —

She doesn’t remember her parents. But she remembers the orphanage in Herzingen; the memories paint themselves in blurry watercolor across her mind, sharp orders in a strange language, stern women with their mouths pressed into hard lines, the scratchy pillowcases she used to smother her tears at night. Her little bed in her father’s quarters; the three-year-long ordeal of her adoption. A _kindness._ A fairytale: the father who chose her and cherished her and saved her from whatever miseries would have haunted her had he left her behind.

And then—sneaking tea and conversation with Feldspar. Speaking Saporian like it’s something shameful and comforting herself with the reassurance that it made her _useful._ Never quite useful enough to join the Watch. Never useful enough to trust.

But still… useful.

 _Sirin surrendered because it was me._ That thought has the taste of bile creeping up her throat, but it— _fits,_ and while Gilbert details his plan to hit Alcorsīa hard and round up as many Separatist supporters as they can find, Cassandra studies the huge map on the wall behind the Commander’s desk, the whorls of crimson pins adorning the southern half of Corona. _Because_ I _went after Rapunzel. If she could use magic to kill an officer and escape from the dungeons, she could have used magic to stop me at Janus Point—but she didn’t._

_Because I’m her niece._

_She sacrificed… whatever she was trying to accomplish with Rapunzel and endangered her own life, for me._

Would her father have done the same? If he had to choose between—

“Dismissed,” Gilbert says crisply, and then, as the officers of the King’s Watch file out of the office, the Prince clears his throat and says, “Miss Morgenstern? A word, if you please.”

Her mouth goes dry. She steps out of line and lingers while the men file out; until it’s just her father and the Prince and herself with her stomach tying itself into knots.

“Walk with me,” Gilbert says.

“Your Highness—”

It’s the first time her father has spoken all morning, and the Prince silences him with a curt glance. Cassandra arranges her face into a wan smile and, nodding, follows Gilbert’s gesture into the corridor.

Outside, he puts his hand on her shoulder and guides her away from the office in nerve-wracking silence. When she risks a quick glance at his face, she finds his expression—thoughtful, again. The same way he watched her while the King presented her with her medal.

“Your Highness?” she ventures, once they’ve turned the corner and he _still_ hasn’t said a word.

Gilbert sighs. “In your estimation, Miss Morgenstern, what purpose did the witch’s surrender at Janus Point serve?”

“I- I— don’t know, Sir.”

“There are no wrong answers.”

It seems to her that there are a lot of wrong answers, and no right ones. Still, she wets her lips and swallows, knowing she has to say _something._ “I… think she may have wanted to– recruit me, Sir.”

That seems to surprise him. “Really?”

“Yes.” _Oh, careful, careful._ It feels like such a dangerous thing to say, but it’s the closest thing to the truth—and that’s safer than scrambling for a lie. “She knew who I was—and what my parents did. At Janus Point she said some things that, well, it was pretty standard recruitment material.” _To slaughter us all—you do your nation credit._ She struggles not to wince.

“You neglected to mention this before.”

“With… all due respect, Sir, it didn’t seem important.”

“And yet now you suggest the whole purpose of the ordeal was an effort targeted towards _you._ ” Gilbert lifts an eyebrow. “Not important for us to know that Saporian insurgents seek to corrupt the very person entrusted with our Princess’s safety?”

“They can try,” Cassandra says. She feels lightheaded—dizzy— _breathe._ A shallow sip of air. “I’ve been providing translations from Saporian for the King’s Watch for years, Sir. I’ve read every argument. They riot in the streets and then cry victim when Corona retaliates. It isn’t what you’d call persuasive.”

_But if what Sirin said is true…_

“No.” Chuckling, Gilbert lifts his hand and lets it fall again, heavy on her shoulder. She supposes it’s meant as support, or approval, a reassurance of a test passed—but all she feels is numb. “No, I see your point.”

“…Sir, if… I may, why are you asking me this?”

They emerge into the first of the public halls. Spiraling ferns of frost scrawl over the panes of the vast windows; the snow that began late last night still drifts down in soft, fat flakes. Enough to blanket the lawn, now.

“You have been entrusted with the safety of my niece,” Gilbert says. “A great honor and one which, frankly, I do not agree you deserve.”

He pauses as if in invitation for her to interject, but Cassandra knows a conversational trap when she sees one. She keeps her mouth shut, bowing her head in a weak performance of humility, and waits.

She thinks she detects a faint trace of approval in the Prince’s voice when he continues, “I have kept a close eye on you, Miss Morgenstern, ever since the Commander brought you home. No doubt you can imagine… why.”

“Of course, Sir,” she whispers.

“Your loyalty does you credit, of course. It is your judgment that troubles me; by all accounts you are temperamental, impetuous, even reckless—and indiscreet.” Frowning, Gilbert strokes his mustache as he gazes out at the snow. “If you foster the perception that you harbor… sympathy for the Saporians, that becomes a weakness they will seek to exploit. Do you understand my implication?”

“I- I’m not– sure I do, Sir.”

He gives her a slanting, disappointed glance, and then; “Who was the woman at the theatre, Miss Morgenstern?”

All the air in the corridor vanishes. Cassandra misses a step, and only the sudden clamp of Gilbert’s fingers around her shoulder saves her from an outright stumble. _He– he_ can’t _know. If he knew—_

“—Wh- what?”

“On Unification Day, girl,” he snaps. “Your… date.”

The word slips out with an accompanying sneer, and Cassandra feels a perverse burst of gratitude for Caine’s _ridiculous_ behavior—mortifying though it had been at the time—a perfect, if… scandalous alibi.

“A- a friend,” Cassandra breathes. “Ornella Lynch.”

“A friend. Hm.” Gilbert lifts his hand from her shoulder at last and folds his arms behind his back, flat disbelief in his eyes. “Well, Miss Morgenstern, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how such… _friends_ can appear to outside eyes, and what impressions those appearances may… produce.”

Heart hammering in her throat, she nods. It isn’t hard to make herself look frightened and ashamed and _small_ —all she has to do is hide the sick relief making her knees feel like water.

“Such inclinations are common among Saporians,” Gilbert murmurs, almost indulgently. “Your inherited… proclivities are not your fault. But in the future, I advise you not to let them lead you astray.”

“I—won’t, Sir. Th- thank you for the advice.”

“Good. You’re dismissed, Miss Morgenstern.”

Cassandra curtsies—it feels odd in trousers—and strides away as fast as she can go without causing offense. Her skin crawls. She can feel the Prince’s gaze lingering on the back of her neck until the next turn in the corridor carries her out of sight.

## ❦

“Good morning, Cass!”

Cassandra greets the… tower of cloaks and coats and colorful scarves from which Rapunzel’s cheerful voice emerges with a puzzled blink, then looks to Eugene for an explanation. He’s perched on the edge of Rapunzel’s bed with Pascal huddled in his lap, both of them morose and shivering, and he returns her glance with an unhelpful shrug.

“Ah, Sunshine,” he says, “I’m no fan of the snow, but I think you _may_ be going just a teensy… tiny bit overboard in the winter clothing department.”

“Don’t like the cold, Raps?” Cassandra asks, bemused.

Wobbling, Rapunzel tugs a scarf down to reveal her face—flushed, grinning, her green eyes sparkling like jewels. “It’s fine inside, but I want to go _outside!_ ” she says. “Gothel always said— Oh.” Her nose scrunches up. “Winter’s probably a lot less dangerous than she made it seem, isn’t it?”

She looks so dismayed to have discovered yet another of her kidnapper’s ridiculous lies that Cassandra feels a fond smile tug at the corners of her mouth; a warm bubble of relief. If all else fails, at least Rapunzel is still _Rapunzel._

“Hit me,” she says.

“Frostbite?”

“Real, but you’ll be fine as long as you stay dry and everything’s covered.”

“Dying from the cold?”

“Also real, also avoidable with precautions.”

“Hungry wolves?”

“In the mountains, maybe—also wolves do exist in summertime, Raps.”

“Venomous yetis?”

“This far south? No.”

“Rampaging snowmen?”

This time, Cassandra can’t stop the dry chuckle. “Those are something kids make for fun, and the worst you’ll get is an unsightly lawn ornament.”

“That woman was a piece of _work,_ ” Eugene mutters.

“Okay, then,” Rapunzel says, looking pleased. She teeters again, her effort to unwind her topmost scarf hampered by the sheer number of layers she piled onto herself, and makes a small, frustrated huff.

“Let’s try one coat,” Cassandra says, dry. “Here, Raps—”

Together, they make quick work of all the extra layers. In a moment or two Rapunzel emerges robed in pink, her cheeks nestled in the voluminous fur of her collar; plus matching gloves, a hat, and—wonder of wonders—boots. She twirls, stumbling only a little in her reluctant footwear.

“How do I look? Winter-ready?”

“Beautiful, Sunshine,” Eugene says, and when Cassandra rolls her eyes he balls up one of the discarded scarves and tosses it at her without missing a beat. “And, yes, ready to venture out into the cold, damp, thoroughly unpleasant unknown; with Cass _an_ dra, who I’m sure feels right at home in the snow.”

“Ha ha.” She winds the scarf around her neck, humming. “Say—Raps. Are you familiar with the concept of a ‘snowball fight?’”

Eugene groans, and Cassandra indulges in a malevolent chuckle when Rapunzel says, “No? But it sure sounds like _fun,_ ” and as the three of them make their way down from the tower, she feels herself relaxing, little by little. Her— _friends? does Fitzherbert count?_ —her friends haven’t changed, even if she’s lost her footing everywhere else.

Also, _nothing_ is going to stop her from dumping snow down the back of Eugene’s shirt, and the prospect of _that_ lifts her spirits considerably.

But it’s _bitter_ outside, the kind of cold that sticks in the nose and needs to thaw before it settles down inside the lungs, and no sooner have their little trio emerged from the palace than even Cassandra, accustomed as she is to Herzingen winters, loses her appetite for games in the snow. Rapunzel coughs into her gloved palm, stomping her feet in the fresh snow.

“Is it _always_ this cold?”

“At this time of year? Not even.” Cassandra pulls up the folds of her borrowed scarf to guard her ears and face against the chill, scowling. “Figures your first snow’d be a cold snap—come on.”

“Cass,” Eugene grumbles through teeth gritted too hard to chatter, “this is not exactly _snowman_ weather—”

“Can it, Fitzherbert.” She links her arm around Rapunzel’s and marches them all across the lawn, toward the palace gates where Stan and Pete are shivering at their posts.

_Good. They owe me._

They’re all but past the gate before her father’s finest spots them; Stan makes a long, uncomfortable sound and says, “Cass, I… don’t know if it’s the best idea for the Princess to leave, uh, today. Considering—”

Sergeant or not, Stan still wilts before the force of her stare.

“Those tunnels have openings all over the palace grounds,” Cassandra says, lifting her chin. “Rapunzel is probably _safer_ down in the city than in the palace these days.”

“But—”

She lifts her eyebrows the way her father does when he’s made a decision, and Stan shuts his mouth with a click. “Well. Alright, if you think it’s best.”

“Stay warm!” Pete chirps after them, and Cassandra gives him a little wave.

“You sure got an upgrade,” Rapunzel whispers once they’re through. She taps a finger against Cassandra’s badge, looking proud. “But—why’s it dangerous to leave the palace _this_ time?”

Wincing, Cassandra tells her in an undertone of Sirin’s escape, leaving out the gorier details—Gilbert had taken, she thought, a little too much enjoyment in elaborating on the state of Connell’s body when one of the lieutenants asked—and squeezing Rapunzel’s elbow when the exuberant light in her eyes dims.

“It’s going to be fine, Raps,” she murmurs. “Dad’s on it.”

 _Well, Gilbert is, with Dad’s men._ If Dad’s flat silence is anything to judge by, he’s less than pleased with the Prince’s commandeering of the force, but…

She clears her throat. “Anyway, she can’t have gone far. They’ll catch her.”

“I hope so.”

 _I’m not sure I do._ Cassandra lapses into silence as she hurries the three of them away from the palace, feeling the familiar, icy trickle of guilt at the thought. Her life is complicated enough without the weight of her aunt rotting in the dungeons—or swinging from the gallows. Even if Sirin _is_ a murderer, she’s—

 _If she’s telling the truth, my parents were murdered, and every officer who had a hand in those arrests has innocent blood on their hands._ And if that’s _true,_ if death is the price for a Saporian trying to do the right thing in the wrong circumstances, then, then—

_Then… what do they have to lose?_

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down her spine. Swallowing hard, Cassandra forces herself to pay attention to Eugene’s stream of idle prattle—somehow in her moment of distraction, he managed to leap from the Separatist problem to the problem of how the cold dries out his skin, and even in the morass of her own troubles she can spare enough energy to roll her eyes.

“Well, Fitzherbert, where we’re going, _cold_ won’t be a problem.”

“Eh?”

She points down the street to the smithy, where the rosy glow of the forges seeps out through the entrance of the yard in defiance of the biting cold, and Eugene perks up at once. “We going to see Varian?”

“Warmest place in Herzingen on days like this,” Cassandra says. “Plus—” she bumps her shoulder against Rapunzel’s, smiling “—I figured you might want to see him. Kid’s been worrying about you.”

“Has he?” Rapunzel looks alarmed and delighted all at once. “Really—”

Beaming, she takes the lead for the remainder of the walk, slipping through the powdery snow that blankets the steep slope of the final stretch between them and the smithy and laughing with burbling, carefree joy when her feet slide out out from under her and they almost go down in an undignified heap; it’s Eugene who saves them, by tumbling into the frame of the arch leading into the yard and holding on for dear life.

“I _really_ hate snow,” he mutters.

Cassandra claps him on the back as she sidles past him into the _delicious_ warmth of the smithy, where Varian is stoking the coals in one of the smaller forges while Xavier hammers away at a glowing bar of steel.

“Sword?” she guesses, nodding at it.

The blacksmith’s eyes crinkle with his smile. “No, but a good guess. This is the beginnings of an– anchor, so to speak. Good morning, Your Highness, everyone.”

“Rapunzel!” Varian doesn’t abandon his post by the forge, which Cassandra supposes is something of a triumph for him, but he waves with an enthusiasm that probably borders on unsafe; and the Princess, beaming, waves back.

“Hi, Varian!”

“An anchor for _what,_ exactly?” Cassandra asks, watching with a fond smile while Rapunzel tries to offer an apology for _putting you in danger_ and Varian waves her off with an casual flick of his hand and launches into an exuberant ramble about his newfound interest in masks to protect against harmful gasses.

Xavier flips the bar around and begins to hammer it into a curved shape around the anvil’s horn; three strikes, then he turns, nudging Varian and Rapunzel out of his way, and slides the bar into the forge again.

“I cannot be sure—yet.” Xavier scratches his beard, and then, clearing his throat, adds, “It’s good that you are here, Princess. Rumors have been circulating about what happened at Janus Point, and I had hoped to get the chance to ask you some questions before I depart.”

“…Depart?”

“You’re going somewhere?” Varian asks, looking just as startled as the rest of them. “Wh- when? Why?”

With a chuckle, Xavier flips his hammer over in his hand and says, “I will explain everything in a moment. But first, I must know whether my hunch is correct, and the only people who can confirm that are the ones—” he points at Rapunzel with one hand, and Cassandra with the other “—who witnessed the ritual the Separatists tried to perform at Janus Point.”

“I didn’t really… _witness_ anything,” Rapunzel says, sheepish. “I was unconscious for the whole thing; all I remember is… weird… dreams?”

At this, Xavier nods, and when his attention turns to Cassandra, everyone else’s comes with it. She swallows. She recounted the whole ordeal—several times—at Prince Gilbert’s behest, and once more to fill in the details for Rapunzel once the Princess awoke from her exhausted slumber. Doing it again is not her idea of a good way to spend the morning, but…

“It… wasn’t much of a ritual,” she says. “Si– She cut open Rapunzel’s arm, pulled something out of it, and… these… little roots grew out of the ground and dug into the wound. It didn’t go any farther than that.”

“What did it look like?” She’s accustomed to seeing that _intent_ look on Xavier’s face whenever he examines a finished piece; it’s disconcerting to have it turned on _her,_ and for a moment her mind feels blank as the fresh snow outside.

“U- uh.” Cassandra closes her eyes, trying to focus on the the memory rather than the discomfort of being put on the spot; what she remembers most is the all-consuming _terror_ laced with guilt, and the rush of adrenaline that gave her the strength to break free of the vines. Admiring the view had not been high on her list of priorities. “They… glowed,” she offers. “The roots. Different colors; it—almost seemed like it was coming _from_ Rapunzel?”

When she looks again, Xavier is nodding in a slow, pensive way.

“Does that help?” she asks, feeling more than a bit useless.

“It does,” he says. He doesn’t sound _pleased,_ but there’s a definite note of satisfaction in his voice. “I suspect that the Separatists sought to use remnants of the sundrop’s power in order to summon Zhan Tiri back into the world.”

“ _What?!_ ”

Cassandra isn’t the only one adding her voice to the cry; Rapunzel and Varian join in, too, while Eugene folds his arms and frowns, befuddled. “Why would anyone want to do _that?_ ”

“Worship of Zhan Tiri was once widespread in Saporia,” Xavier says. “Indeed, that is how Lord Demanitus first encountered the evil spirit, for some of Zhan Tiri’s disciples also searched the sundrop flower on behalf of their master.” He draws his—anchor—out of the forge and resumes his hammering, his brow furrowed. “I did promise to tell you more stories of Lord Demanitus’s battles with Zhan Tiri, did I not?”

“Is it related to—whatever that’s for?” Cassandra asks.

Xavier nods. “Lord Demanitus was a young man when he crossed paths with the Saporian warlocks who served Zhan Tiri. At first, he found in them a kinship, for they were scholars just as he was, and for a time they joined forces, and sought the object of their quest together. However, when he learned of their master’s identity, he became troubled and questioned their intentions for the sundrop.

“This angered the warlocks, and they called upon their master to destroy Lord Demanitus. Zhan Tiri had an unslakable greed for power, you see, and his servants were determined that nothing would stand in his way. Demanitus was gravely wounded in this altercation and barely escaped with his life, but this only confirmed what he had feared, and he vowed to keep the sundrop flower out of Zhan Tiri’s hands at any cost. For months, he pursued this goal with relentless determination, until, at last, he found a way.”

While he speaks, he shapes the anchor into a smooth half circle, and by the time he finishes it’s cooled to a dull red; Xavier gives it a critical glance before returning it to the forge.

“Using a blend of magic and science, Demanitus designed a ritual to bind the evil spirit to a physical anchor—trapping Zhan Tiri in the caverns beneath the Pingora Mountains, where his power lay sleeping for several decades.”

“Then what happened?” Rapunzel asks, hushed.

“With his enemy bound, Lord Demanitus ventured out into the world to pursue his research—as I told you before.” Xavier gives her a little nod as he motions for Varian to stoke the forge again. “But in his absence, the Saporian cult of Zhan Tiri dedicated themselves to freeing their master from Demanitus’s trap, and, in time, they succeeded.

“Filled with a vengeful rage, Zhan Tiri cursed the land of Corona with a terrible blizzard, which swept across the land for weeks, destroying everything in its path. If Demanitus had not spent his time as wisely as he did, all would have been lost for Corona.

“As it was, Lord Demanitus had, in great secrecy, built a massive subterranean device deep beneath the mountains. This machine did not bind magic, but countered it; and when Lord Demanitus used it, it shredded the magic that fueled Zhan Tiri’s storm and saved the day. The evil spirit retreated, and Lord Demanitus dedicated the rest of his life to the protection of Corona.”

He ends the tale with a little nod, as if satisfied with his own telling, and turns to draw the anchor from the fire once more. The metal shines a scalding almost-white against the dark, dull iron of the anvil, and Cassandra crosses her arms. Something unpleasant squirms in her stomach.

_An anchor._

“You think that’s happening again,” she says slowly, as the pieces nestle into place. “That… Zhan Tiri escaped from wherever Lord Demanitus banished him to, and…”

“Indeed; I am certain that this is not a natural storm.” Xavier slides the anchor into a new position on the anvil and begins to hammer it into a—shape; vaguely serpentine. “I do not think Zhan Tiri himself has been freed; but I suspect enough of his power slipped through the cracks during the attempt to reawaken the curse of the blizzard, and so—”

“Demanitus’s binding ritual!” Rapunzel gasps. “You know how to do it?”

“That knowledge is not so rare in these days,” Xavier says, smiling. “Nor is it difficult to perform, but it does have one significant limitation: once completed, the anchor cannot be moved. Therefore, it is best to perform the ritual in a secluded location, where others are unlikely to find it.”

“Can I come?” Varian’s eyes shine as he leans around Xavier’s side, peering at the anchor with newfound interest; chuckling, Xavier nudges him back a step. “Can I _help?_ Imagine getting to replicate a ritual Lord Demanitus _invented_ —”

“I thought magic wasn’t in your wheelhouse, kid,” Eugene says, voice light.

“Still!”

“I think,” Rapunzel says, “we should _all_ go.”

_Oh no._

“Raps, I’m not sure—”

“Think about it, Cass!” Rapunzel gives her a fiercely stubborn glance, jutting out her chin. “I’m the princess. Protecting Corona is _my_ job, and if there’s anything left of the sundrop’s power…” She grips her wrist; the bandages hidden beneath the thick sleeves of her coat. “…maybe it’ll help.”

“And i- if we’re headed for the Pingoras, we could pass through Herrfeld,” Varian adds. “M-maybe we could check on the rocks? And I could say hi to Ruddiger, and my Dad.”

“Ruddiger?”

“Kid’s got a raccoon,” Eugene mutters in her ear. Rapunzel and Varian are both too caught up in the excitement of their _terrible new plan_ to pay any attention to the exchange, and Xavier looks back and forth between them for a moment, evidently taken aback by their enthusiasm.

“It is likely to be dangerous,” the blacksmith says, which is, Cassandra muses, the worst possible thing to say to talk Rapunzel out of anything.

“I agree that this is a bad idea,” Cassandra says. She shoots Eugene a pointed glance, hoping he’ll pick up the intended message of _help me._ “For the record.”

It seems he does. “Sunshine, I… can’t see your dad agreeing to let you… go off and do… whatever Xavier’s gonna do with that thing. No offense, Xaves.”

“None taken.”

Rapunzel deflates, but only a little. “I know, Eugene, but it doesn’t feel right to just do _nothing,_ and… Cass could sneak us out. Right, Cass?”

“Woah, woah, _what?_ ”

“Through the labyrinth,” Rapunzel says. Bland innocence writes itself over her face, and for once, Cassandra doesn’t buy it. She gapes back at the Princess. “The tunnels go to the mainland, right?”

“Yes, but—”

But nothing. Xavier shrugs and says that it’ll take him a few hours to finish the anchor and a few more to pack for the journey, but he intends to leave by nightfall; and after several minutes of fruitless arguing, Cassandra concedes defeat. If only because it’s clear Rapunzel plans to sneak out whether she agrees to help or not, and the _last_ thing she needs is for Rapunzel to bleed out in a spike trap under the strait on her watch.

“Fine,” she grinds out at last. “ _If_ the snow gets any worse by dinnertime, I’ll sneak us all out to the mainland.”

“I’ll go find Lance and fill him in,” Eugene says.

“And we’ll go back to the palace and get packed,” Rapunzel says, with a satisfaction bordering on _smug;_ Cassandra just sighs. “And—if the weather gets bad—” she frowns “—we’ll all meet tonight in the tunnels.”

“Very well,” Xavier says.

Grumpily, Cassandra gives him directions to the junction in the labyrinth from which they’ll launch this ill-advised venture, and as they troop out of the smithy, she thinks a silent prayer for clear skies by sundown.

## ❦

The skies did not clear.

By sundown, the flat grey sky darkened into a bruises, and a furious wind screamed its way up the streets of Herzingen; the snow turned to hail and beat its fists against the palace windows. Cassandra stared down from Rapunzel’s bedroom at the frantic battle to keep the beacons alight playing out in minuscule by the waterfront; the fires no more than guttering sparks from that distance, and sighed.

And into the labyrinth they went.

“I’ll lose my job, Raps _,”_ she had said. A feeble protest as she burrowed into her warmest cloak and shouldered her pack. “This is not some little late-night excursion we can keep a secret—it’s three days _just_ to get to Herrfeld. You’re going to go missing, and I don’t think your note is gonna cut it.”

Rapunzel replied, “My Dad will understand, and so will yours,” with such blithe faith that Cassandra had given up.

 _It’s fine,_ she tells herself. They’re somewhere under the strait now—these tunnels dive deeper into the ground than she’s ever gone before, and they’re dank and frigid and the water seeping through the close-fitted stones of the ceiling makes her nervous. Briny, half-frozen puddles litter the uneven floor. Their breath fogs around their heads, and whenever she stops to check the marks scratched into the walls, the sound of chattering teeth swells and echoes into something like thunder. It’s the coldest Cassandra can ever remember feeling.

 _If this storm is what Xavier thinks it is, then stopping it is more important than_ anything _else._

She can’t begrudge Rapunzel her job with so many lives at stake; and… maybe losing her hard-won position in the King’s Watch is no more than she deserves for her treason, her mistakes, for the traitorous thoughts gnawing away in the back of her mind.

_It’s fine._

Her sense of time blurs in the damp darkness of the labyrinth; not until the floor pitches up on the far end of the strait does it begin to to feel as if any time has passed at all. Exhaustion grinds down where the straps of her knapsack dig into her shoulders; she feels almost sick from the violence of her shivers, and her chattering teeth make her jaw ache.

A while after that, the tunnel spits them out into waist-deep snow. The roots of an old oak tree cradle the exit, and the bobbing light of her lantern startles a raven out of the branches as they emerge; it flaps off into the night, croaking indignantly, and snow avalanches out of the tree in its wake. 

“Stupid _bird_ —”

Grumbling, Eugene hunches into his cloak as he stomps out of the tunnels and turns to help Rapunzel out after him; next comes Xavier—little beads of frost glimmer in his beard as the lantern-light catches his face—and Varian, who’s looking a lot less keen on this adventure than he was in the comforting warmth of the forges, though he forces a brave smile when Cassandra catches his eye; and Lance brings up the rear, hands tucked up under his arms.

“Less windy here, at least,” Lance says.

“Fan _tastic._ Isn’t that just _peachy._ ”

“Aw, Eugene, come on—it’s not _that_ bad.”

“Sunshine, I love you, but even _you_ can’t make me see the bright side of this much snow. It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s _wet,_ and unlike Cass _an_ dra, it doesn’t even have any redeeming qualities to make up for it.”

“This way, everyone.” Xavier takes the lead by virtue of girth; kicking a broad path through the piles of snow as he leads them down toward the twinkling lights of one of the little hamlets scattered along the coast. “I have made arrangements for a sledge that will take us as far as Herrfeld.”

“Oh, good,” Eugene mutters. “So we’re not— _walking!_ —through ninety miles of snow! Best news I’ve heard all day…”

His grumbling subsides into panting as the snow deepens, and by the time they reach the stables where Xavier’s sledge is waiting, they’re all too out of breath to do anything but pile in and huddle together under the quilt the driver provides.

As the sledge lurches into motion, Varian digs a half dozen little pouches out of his bag and begins to hand them out. They’re filled with what feels like sand or grainy soil, and Cassandra is on the point of tugging hers open to investigate the contents when the kid says, “Ah-ah—just shake ’em up.”

“What for?” Lance asks, prodding at his.

“Try it and see! It’s, uh, it’s not dangerous.”

“That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence,” Cassandra drawls, but she gives it a try anyway, and the others do too. And—“…Huh.”

“It’s warm!” Rapunzel exclaims.

“Yeah.” Varian cradles his between his hands and offers them all a well-deserved smirk. “Hand-warmers. I figured out how to make them years ago. Pretty cool, right?”

“Nnnot the word I would use,” Eugene says drily, “but good on you, kid.”

Varian preens, his cheeks dimpling with the force of his grin, and the sledge races on into the night.

## ❦

Varian’s hand-warmers only last an hour or two, but the kid packed a generous supply, and with careful rationing they last all the way to Herrfeld. It’s early morning on their third day of travel when the sledge glides to a halt on the outskirts of the village.

Though the wind came and went, the snow never _stopped,_ and Herrfeld is half-buried beneath the drifts. Deep troughs criss-cross the village, excavated paths running between buildings sunk up to their eaves in snow.

Lance prods her as they all clamber out of the sledge. “Is this, uh, _normal_ for Corona, or…?”

“Not for Tárosh,” she whispers back. “I guess Xavier was right.”

“That,” Eugene mutters, “or this is a hell of a coincidence. Well—” he nudges Varian with his elbow. “Your call, kid. You wanna swing by your place or check on the rocks first?”

Conflict writhes across Varian’s face for a moment; worry and interest and something else Cassandra can’t place. He reaches up to rub his face, and the frost clinging to his scarf crackles.

“The rocks,” he says. “And—then I say we keep going. I- I didn’t realize it would get _this_ bad this fast and it’s _still_ snowing.”

They all look up; the slate grey sky, the dull white flakes spiraling down with the placid breeze. This… storm, or curse, or whatever it is has a rhythm to it, a few hours of placid snowfall and a few hours of blinding white rage; if the pattern holds, it’ll be storming again by noon.

“That’s a good call, I think,” Cassandra says quietly. “Let’s go.”

“It’s this way.”

They skirt around the village, heading south. The mountains loom in the distance, a harsher grey against the horizon, spattered white with snow; closer, the bristling dark lines of a forest half-buried, and a bluish-grey streak that reveals itself, after perhaps half an hour of hiking over the snow, as a loop of the River Nathair, frozen solid.

Not long after that, they see the first of the black rocks.

Cassandra… isn’t sure what she expected. A few nubs of black rock poking through the drifts, if that. But as they get close enough to make out the details of the forest, she realizes that many of the shapes she took for scraggly pines are the _rocks_ instead. They have the glossy look of glass, a faint bluish shine in the overcast light. Smaller rocks spindle and spike from the bases of the larger ones, furry with rime.

Nearer still, and the forest itself begins to seem a patchwork of rock—regular trees half-encased in layers of obsidian, their branches caught in the rictus of stone. The hair on the back of her neck prickles.

And… she _hears_ it. A faint, faint whine on the edge of the wind. It tingles in the back of her mind; makes her ears _itch._

“What _is_ this?” Rapunzel breathes.

“Dad says they come from the moonstone,” Varian says quietly. “Like the sundrop flower, its counterpart, but—dangerous, and destructive. It- it destroyed his—our—kingdom, and now… if we can’t find a way to stop it…”

“You didn’t mention any ‘moonstone’ last time.” Eugene swings an arm around Varian’s shoulders, giving him a little shake that fails to elicit any reaction whatsoever. “Must have been, uh— _some_ talk with your Dad after I left.”

“N- no, he told me about that before, I just… All this _magic_ stuff is just, it’s things we don’t understand yet, and I wanted to– _understand._ ” Varian huffs, his voice thick with distress. ”But—I don’t know. This is _so much worse_ than how it was just a couple weeks ago and I don’t—”

“Varian.” Rapunzel makes a grab for his hand, and the rest of them all crowd in closer. There’s a fire in the Princess’s eyes. “We are going to _figure this out,_ alright? I promise. All of us, together. Alright?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Come on.”

Chin held high, she marches down the gentle slope toward the frozen river and the calcifying black forest beyond. They trail after her, Varian clutching her hand as if his life depends on it. Cassandra lets her hand fall to the hilt of her sword; not that it’ll do much good against _rocks,_ but—it’s nice to hold. To feel the weight of it as they creep up on the river.

The nearest of the rocks stabs through the ice: a spear, slender and black and barbed. Tiny, fractal lines of blue glimmer beneath the smooth surface, and as Rapunzel inches onto the frozen river, they flare brighter—dazzling; like frost catching sunlight.

“—What’s happening?”

“I- I don’t know!” Varian sounds caught between fear and excitement; he drops Rapunzel’s hand and scoots further onto the ice, ignoring her call to be careful as he slides up to the rock. “It’s having some sort of reaction—to you?—but like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Adira must have been right! The rocks are responding to- to the sundrop, or whatever’s left of it, or—”

Cassandra throws out an arm to stop the others from following Rapunzel and Varian onto the ice, shaking her head when Eugene tries to protest. “Listen for cracking,” she murmurs. “All of you—that’s the best way to protect her right now.”

The rock glows brighter and brighter as Rapunzel shuffles up to it, until the gloss shines _white_ —whiter than the snow, brighter than the sun but pale as moonlight—Cassandra squints, trying to keep track of what’s happening while Varian babbles excitedly and Rapunzel leans in closer to examine—

_a tortured, glacial creak_

—a roar—

She’s halfway through shouting Rapunzel’s name when the world erupts. A frigid blast of air hits her in the chest and she finds herself airborne; a terrified scream gathers itself to spring from her lungs, but a snowdrift catches her before she can make a sound and then—

Everything goes still.

Cassandra blinks up at the roiled clouds in dazed confusion. The cold sting of snowflakes settling on her brow—a hollow ringing in her ears—blue afterimages flickering in her eyes. _What_ —

“—Ra–” Gasping, she flails herself out of the snow. “Rapunzel? _Raps?_ ”

Other cries, distant and strange through the aftershocks of the explosion in her ears. _The explosion—_ Lance’s noisy groan, Eugene calling Rapunzel’s name—Varian’s shout of “I’m okay! Wow!”—a mound of snow several feet away from her bursts and Xavier rolls out of it, rubbing his head—but _where is_ —

“…Um… g- guys?”

“ _Raps!_ ”

She throws herself to her feet, ready to sob with relief when the Princess clambers out of a Rapunzel-shaped hole in another snowdrift with a confused murmur of, “Is– everyone okay? What just—”

The earth bucks, sending them all to their knees again; Lance screams, and Cassandra scrambles up again, reaching for Rapunzel—

_BOOM._

A new rock explodes out of the riverbed in a shower of broken ice and snow and frozen clods of dirt—Lance squeals in startled terror—the ground shakes, and there’s a horrible _grinding_ noise of rock scraping against rock beneath their feet, and Cassandra doesn’t _think._

She grabs Rapunzel’s hand, hauls her to her feet, and screams, “ _Run!_ ”


	18. Chapter 17: Subterranean Thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tad late on this one—sorry about that! Work got a bit grueling last week, but the next chapter'll still be on Friday as scheduled. x_x

###  **Chapter 17: Subterranean Thunder**

The ground erupts with stone. Rocks burst through the snow—the calcified forest shrieks, rippling like ink in water—Cassandra grips the back of Rapunzel’s coat and hurls her forward, away from the river, shouting, “Run— _Go!_ ”

“ _Eugene!_ ”

A thunderous _boom_ shakes the earth. She glimpses Lance, scooping Varian out of harm’s way—Eugene rolling beneath a massive spike and leaping to safety—his eyes catch hers for an instant, and she sees him mouth, _go._

Another quake knocks her off her feet, and as she throws herself up again, she grabs Rapunzel by the elbow and screams, “He’ll be fine! Just keep moving, Rapunzel—”

They tear along the riverbank, slipping and sliding in the loose snow. So much vulnerable froth on the crest of a wave of fangs and claw—Cassandra keeps her grip locked around Rapunzel’s wrist to catch her whenever she stumbles and somehow, somehow they manage to slip through the snapping jaws of the rocks behind them. Gritty flakes of snow fly into her eyes, blinding—the ravenous scream of the rocks drowns out everything but the roar of her pulse in her ears—a gleaming black spear explodes out of the riverbank and misses her by inches—the frigid air _burns_ in her chest, in her limbs—the storm comes howling down the dismal grey slopes of the mountains and drives them on and on like a lashing whip.

 _oh, stars_ —

Ice underfoot—skidding—

On the other side of the river, the snow hardens into solider drifts and, surer of her footing, Cassandra gasps and hurtles forward, tugging the Princess along beside her.

And they _run._

## ❦

Until the snow snares them down. Rapunzel collapses first, wheezing, and Cassandra slumps onto her knees at her side. Trembling, aching, she wraps one arm around the Princess’s shoulders and makes a half-hearted effort to pull them both to their feet. “C- c-come on, we— h-have to– keep…”

_Moving._

But the air tastes like slivered glass; her whole body pulses with the sick, fiery pain of over-exertion, and terror has given way to grinding exhaustion. Let them be spitted on the rocks—it might hurt less.

Nothing happens.

Snow swirls through the sparse trees in heavy curtains, and the earth lies still below. She and Rapunzel sag against each other, panting. After a moment, she finds the energy to lift her head and look back.

Surging rocks chased them into a copse of aspens, but the jagged waves of black stone stop where the slender trees begin. Barren branches scrape the sky; the snow drifted between the trees is littered with fallen leaves, rich gold frosting into white. A… reprieve, but the wind grows sharper; the steady snowfall ripening fast into a blizzard again.

Her head spins. She blinks, sluggish.

The searing fatigue in her limbs ebbs, and as the sensation of the cold trickles back in, it brings with it a new fear; quieter, insidious. She’s spent most of her life in Herzingen, seldom venturing further than the familiar trails weaving over the coast; a few times she’s accompanied the Commander on trips to Anbruch or Kongsburg to inspect the city watches there. But she’s never been in the countryside.

They are somewhere… east, she thinks, of Herrfeld. And south of the Nathair. Other settlements scatter the area, dotting the sprawling farmland of the plains and nestling around mines in the mountains, but—their odds of finding one before succumbing to the cold…

The aspens provide little in the way of shelter from the storm. The rocks might offer more, but given how they reacted to Rapunzel—

”We– we can’t… stay here,” she rasps. Her legs shake as she lurches to her feet and dizziness eats her alive; swaying, she reaches down to help Rapunzel up, too. “Need—to find shelter—the storm’s getting bad—”

“Where?”

“F- forward, I guess.” The storm whistles through the trees, and swipes against her cheeks like a knife. Shivering, Cassandra adjusts her scarf to cover more of her face.

They walk.

The rattling of branches in the wind, the crunch of snow underfoot, the keening of every icy gust—the charcoaled eyes of the pale trunks observe their passage with baleful indifference. She keeps her arm locked around Rapunzel’s shoulder, though whether she’s holding the Princess up or the other way around, she can’t say. Fatigue muffles her thoughts. Each step feels heavier than the last.

_Don’t stop. Don’t… stop._

Plodding through snow doesn’t— there’s a dull, numbing quality to the journey. Cassandra pushes against the blank, trancelike calm threatening to encroach; snowflakes sting her brow and stick there instead of melting. The splintered bones of her exhaustion erode into nubs of a softer tiredness.

_Don’t._

Rapunzel whimpers. It is– her job to keep the Princess safe. However ill-suited she might be to the task, she can’t— the snowdrifts will be soft, if they stop, if they sink into the cold and let—

“Keep m-moving,” she mumbles. “K-keep—”

A trudging eternity. The cold becomes a liquescent, seeping thing; intruding into muscle and bone and glazing over her thoughts.

_cass a nd ra—_

She sways to a halt and, blearily, turns her face into the wind. “D- did you here that?”

“…What?”

It comes again; a faint but unmistakable cry, muffled by distance and shredded by the wind that bears it: _ra punz el—_ and her heart leaps with renewed vigor. “That sounds like Eugene!”

Even as Rapunzel mumbles that she doesn’t hear anything, he calls again. _This_ time, she spots him—a figure moving between the trees far to their left. The snowy haze softens him to little more than a vague shadow with his hands cupped to his mouth, but—

_cassandra!_

“Come on!”

Relief like a candle flame licking her heart. The exhaustion cracks and slides away as she hurries toward him, shouting his name.

“Cass, I don’t see any—”

Eugene’s voice eddies back to them, broken by the wind; Rapunzel’s name, and hers. He retreats through the trees, hunched against the cold, and Cassandra dredges up the scraps of a second wind and breaks into a jog.

“Wait—Cass—”

“ _Come on!_ ”

Another chase, shambling. The wind snatches her shouted replies from her mouth, and Eugene’s brisk movement keeps him ever just out of sight. Frustration enough to strangle—Rapunzel huddles against her side, mumbling in bleak confusion. Snow drags against her thighs as the land slopes down, plunging them into deeper drifts.

Then, without warning, the ground gives way. A startled scream snags halfway up her throat as they break through a crust of snow and tumble into the cold, smothering embrace of powder—it fills her mouth with the icy taste of winter—

And spits them out into darkness. For a moment, they lie dazed. Bare, uneven ground presses into her shoulders. Cassandra blinks, struggling to make sense of the faint green swirls scrawled into the shadows overhead. The cloying foulness of the damp, warm air.

“Wh–”

 _Like eggs gone bad._ That’s the smell—

Groaning, she rolls herself onto her knees. Mist—no, _steam_ —billows against her face. The lap of water on stone trickles into her ears. They’re in– a cave, somewhere. Warmed by a hot spring.

They must have walked right over a ledge, fallen through the drifted snow, and… rolled into the cavern by—happenstance.

No— _Eugene_ led them here.

“Fitzherbert?” She gags his name through the sulfurous stench, squinting.

Silence.

It’s as good a place as any to wait out the ravages of the blizzard. Once the wind fades, they can dig their way out, take stock of their surroundings, and chart a path back to civilization. Find the others. But _where is he—?_

The only illumination is a faint, eerie green glow emanating from the strands of—worms? fungus?—that cling to the walls. As her eyes adjust to the gloom, she picks out the glint of reflected light in the water. No Eugene.

She calls for him again. Doubt cracks her voice as it echoes deeper and deeper into the dense black shadows at the back of the cave; nothing answers.

They’re… alone.

Trembling, Cassandra shuffles toward the water. Her fingers curl over the lip of the rock, and hot water seeps into her gloves. A soothing sting. She shivers.

“Where’s…?”

“There’s no one here, Cass,” Rapunzel whispers.

“But—” Bewildered, she sits up on her haunches, pulling her scarf away from her face. Nothing but steam moves through the dank shadows. They’re _alone._ “He was– h- he was _here,_ I- don’t…”

Mist curls in her lungs as she gulps air. She _knows_ what she saw—what she _heard._ Eugene couldn’t have just—

_I don’t understand!_

“Cassandra…” Rapunzel crawls up beside her, speaking in a low, soothing tone that makes her stomach churn. “Whatever you thought you saw, it… wasn’t Eugene.”

“I know what I saw!”

“Well I know what _I_ saw, too!” A fierce whisper. “There was _nothing_ there, Cass! Nobody’s here except us! _You_ started shouting at nothing and- and led us here.”

The silence rings. Rapunzel screws her eyes shut, breath scraping past her lips with a choked sob tattering around its edges; she tears off her gloves and leans over to dip her hands in the spring, sniffling.

“…Raps, I…”

She sags. Maybe the cold made her see things—but it felt so _real_ —

“We need to go find the others,” Rapunzel says, voice thick. She rips her hands out of the water, jams them back into her gloves, and gets to her feet to march toward the exit.

“Are you _insane?_ ” Cassandra scrambles after her, reaching out— “You want to go back outside _now?_ ”

“Eugene’s still out there! And Lance, Varian—Xavier!—because we _left_ them!”

“There wasn’t time to—”

Rapunzel twists in her grasp, livid with fury. “There is _always_ time for the people we love!” she snaps. “Then, now, _always!_ So we’re _going back to find them_ —”

“No!” The Princess writhes, but Cassandra plants her heels in the cave floor and anchors them both. “Raps, listen to me—if we go out again, we’ll get lost in the storm. We’ll never find this place again. You think us freezing to death will help anyone? It _won’t!_ ”

“We left— _you_ left them!”

“My job is to protect _you!_ Not Eugene, not Lance, not Varian, not Xavier—!”

“Well I can take care of myself!” With a final heave, Rapunzel wrenches herself free and stumbles away, breathing hard. “I don’t need you to protect me, Cassandra, I need—”

“Oh- _ho,_ really? Well, _I’m_ not the one who decided to sneak out of Herzingen and wander around in the worst blizzard in centuries! I _told_ you this whole thing was a terrible idea, and wouldn’t you know it? I was _right!_ ”

“Oh, don’t act like you knew _this_ would happen!” Rapunzel rips her hat off and rakes her fingers through her hair, looking half-crazed with anger and fear. “The fate of the whole kingdom was at stake, we—”

“Could have let Xavier handle it!”

“It’s _my_ kingdom!”

“That doesn’t mean you need to solve every problem by yourself, Rapunzel! For all we know, this is just a freak storm, not some– some powerful ancient curse—it happens! You hunker down and wait it out, you don’t rush out to- to—”

Groaning, Cassandra slaps a hand over her face. Frost still clings to the palm of her glove, and the cold feels—clarifying. The pulse throbbing in her throat softens, and she forces the boiling frustration _down._ Pounds her voice flat.

“—Look, Rapunzel. I– there’s no point in— what’s done is done.” Forcing a harsh sigh out through her teeth, she lets her hand fall, calmer. “It’s not your fault. And I know—”

— _you’re worried about Eugene,_ but those words falter on her tongue, smoothed over by raw surprise. She squints at Rapunzel, and Rapunzel frowns back.

“…Cass?”

“Raps, is– your hair!— it’s _blonde._ ”

“What?!”

In the gloom, it’s impossible to discern the exact shade—but Rapunzel’s short mop of hair is a _lot_ lighter than it should be. The Princess pulls a fistful of it in front of her face, going cross-eyed.

“Wh– _How—?_ ”

“…The rocks.” Cassandra closes the distance with a cautious step; Rapunzel looks wild-eyed, teetering on the brink of outright terror. “It must’ve—when you touched them…”

The pale tendrils Sirin pulled out of Rapunzel’s arm—like the unearthed roots of a _flower,_ of course—and shimmering light pouring out of the cut—the calamitous explosion when Rapunzel touched the rocks; and Varian’s moonstone, Xavier’s tale of the sundrop’s dark counterpart.

 _Rapunzel’s connected to the black rocks. Of course. And the sundrop’s power was never_ gone _, just dormant, so when she touched the rocks…_

”This– no.” A shudder wracks Rapunzel’s shoulders, and she darts around Cassandra, falls to her knees in front of the spring, gasping—her breath coming fast and shallow, a panicked wheeze.

“Raps—”

“Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine, make the clock reverse, bring back” —as Rapunzel chants, frantic, tripping over the words, her hair ignites with a soft, golden light; she chokes down a sob— “what once was mine; heal what has been hurt, change the fates’ design, save what has been lost, bring b- back what once—”

Her voice breaks. She clamps a hand over her mouth, recoiling, and the light fades. Cassandra blinks away violet afterimages as the darkness reasserts itself and drops to one knee at Rapunzel’s side, opening her arms.

Rapunzel falls into them, and for a while, she just moves her hands in soothing little circles, up and down the Princess’s side, while Rapunzel cries into her chest.

“M- my hair—” Rapunzel burrows deeper into her arms. “I- I don’t _want_ it b-back—”

“Oh. _Oh,_ Raps– no—listen—” She cards her fingers through the blonde strands, heart aching. “It goes away when you cut it, right? So– so as soon as we get out of this, we’ll give it a trim. I _swear,_ Raps. For now—let’s just sit tight. We can stay warm in here until the blizzard stops; then we’ll go back to Herrfeld, and meet up with Eugene and the others. They’ll all be fine, too. Eugene’s smart—don’t tell him I said that—”

Rapunzel giggles. It’s feeble, muffled against her chest, but it’s enough. A relief after the frantic tears. Cassandra gives her back a more vigorous rub and continues, “So he can take care of himself, and so can the others. It’s going to be fine—Xavier can do his weird ritual, we’ll cut your hair, and then we’ll all go home.”

And… then she’ll lose her job. Cassandra winces.

“…All we need to worry about for right now is staying warm, alright?”

“Okay,” Rapunzel whispers. “S-sorry—”

“It’s fine.”

With a bit more coaxing, she gets Rapunzel out of her winter layers and curled up next to the spring, warming her hands in the steam. Cassandra sheds her coat, too, kicks off her boots and peels off her socks, sits beside the Princess and rolls up her trousers so she can dip her toes gingerly into the spring.

The heat stings at first, but she grits her teeth through the first few seconds of pain, and after that it softens into a much pleasanter sensation. Sighing, she closes her eyes and inches her feet fully into the water. Her skin tingles as she soaks in the warmth.

And, for a few minutes, there’s no sound but the faint hiss of steam, the slop of water against rock, and Rapunzel’s quiet, sniffly breathing.

“…Cass?”

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry I got so mad.”

“It’s fine, Raps.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Well– no, but it’s—anyone would’ve lost their temper, I think. It’s fine.”

“It didn’t… feel fine.”

“But it is.” She fumbles through the shadows to find Rapunzel’s hand and squeezes, lightly. “I get it.”

Inch by inch, Rapunzel shifts her weight until she’s leaning against Cass, her head warm and heavy on Cassandra’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine. After Pascal.”

“And after Eugene?” Cassandra asks drily.

“–Well—” Chuckling in a watery sort of way, Rapunzel jostles her shoulder against Cassandra’s. “Okay. You’re a really, really, _really_ close third.”

“I can live with that.”

Rapunzel nestles her head into a more comfortable position, squeezing her hand in turn, and—it’s nice. Warm; and the stink of sulfur bothers her less and less with every breath. The deadly cold of the storm feels like a distant memory, echoing in the faint sound of wind howling outside.

She rests her head against Rapunzel’s, stroking her knuckles with her thumb. Her hands are very soft, and warm, and it feels— _good,_ their fingers tangling together like this. It feels _right._

“So…” she murmurs. “You know, I—always thought Eugene was exaggerating with the glowing hair stuff.”

“Hm. You should’ve seen when it was seventy feet long.”

“I don’t know—short hair suits you.”

“I like it, too.” She sighs, halfway rueful, halfway wistful. “When I was little, I’d hum the song when moth— when Gothel wasn’t around, just to see the lights.”

“Only when she wasn’t around?”

“Oh. Yes. She—didn’t like me using it for no reason.” More of Rapunzel’s weight slumps against her, and her voice sinks into a whisper. “I never understood why; but I did… like… the ritual of it all. We’d sit in front of the fire, and she’d brush my hair, and I’d… sing.”

Stripped of context, Cassandra supposes it does sound nice. Not far off from the winter nights when she’d sit by the hearth with her father while he taught her how to clean a sword. Except—

“S-sometimes, I– I miss… her,” Rapunzel breathes. She tucks her face against Cassandra’s shoulder, releasing a frightened little gasp. “Gothel. I know I shouldn’t—”

Her voice quavers and dies. Cassandra leans into her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “I think that’s okay,” she murmurs against Rapunzel’s hair. “I used to— um.” Tension tries to creep into her shoulders, but she forces it away, because this feels like something Rapunzel maybe needs to hear. Softly, she continues, “My parents were… traitors.”

_Maybe._

“Saporians who—it doesn’t… matter what they did; they… were executed. And– I always—I used to wonder what my life would be like, if they hadn’t…”

 _Used to._ She’s _still_ wondering, but now the wondering has _teeth._ If her parents were innocent, if Sholar Hároham hadn’t written that letter, if her father hadn’t found her during the arrests or if he’d bothered to track down her _relatives_ before taking her home—

_He kidnapped me._

She flinches away from that thought, but it plants itself in the center of her mind, bald and jagged and ugly, and refuses to budge. Her parents… innocent or not, were as good as dead in Coronan custody, but she– she knows the procedure for children orphaned by arrests. They’re meant to stay with their closest living adult relative.

By law, her father should have done his due diligence, found Sirin, and delivered her to her aunt.

He… hadn’t.

“I’m so sorry, Cass,” Rapunzel breathes.

She resurfaces, shivering. This is not the conversation she wanted to have; although looking back, she’s not entirely sure what she _did_ want to talk about. With a sigh, she says, “The… point is, it’s okay to have mixed up feelings about all… that. It’s normal– I mean… she was your mother, sort of. She raised you for eighteen years; that’s a… big thing to let go of.”

And then… there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. Rapunzel nods, never lifting her head from Cassandra’s shoulder; she tugs her skirt up to her knees and sinks her toes into the water, and Cassandra closes her eyes, and together they soak up the warmth while they wait for the next lull in the storm.

## ❦

“How long do you think it’ll last?” Rapunzel asks, later.

The wind’s still howling, unabated, and Cassandra has been trying not to think about how deep the drifts will be when it’s finally safe to dig themselves out. Maybe they’ll be lucky; maybe the rocks didn’t chase them as far afield as it felt like they did, and when they resurface, they’ll find themselves no more than a brisk walk from Herrfeld.

Or maybe they’re lost.

She swirls her feet through the water, gnawing the inside of her cheek as her toes graze the bottom. Steam plasters her curls to her face, itchy. She scrubs them away with a frown. “I—don’t know.”

“Because,” Rapunzel murmurs, “I’ve been thinking, maybe we could see where that leads?”

She points into the heavier darkness where the cave narrows into the suggestion of a tunnel pushing deeper into the earth, and Cassandra strangles a groan. “We don’t have any lanterns, and I don’t think getting lost in a cave will really… help our situation, Raps.”

“I could sing. My hair…”

Glows now. Again. _Right._ Well—

It’s not a _terrible_ idea, with visibility accounted for. The Pingoras have a lot of natural caverns like this, and if they can get their bearings, finding Herrfeld once the weather clears a bit might be… easier. But…

“Still risky,” Cassandra says with a gusty sigh. “We don’t know what might be living in this cave, or how deep it goes, or if there’s even another entrance besides the one we came through. We could get lost or trapped; it might get colder. Our safest bet is to stay here until the wind dies down.”

“I know that. But…”

But, if Cassandra’s honest with herself, she’s sick of sitting around doing nothing, too. “It’s your call.”

“I can’t keep sitting here.”

“Okay.” That settled, Cassandra scoots away from the water, towards the pile of their winter clothes. “Dry off, get dressed—do you have something we can use to mark our way if we hit a fork in the tunnel?”

“Paint?” Rapunzel asks.

“That’ll do. And if you can keep your hair… bright, we should be able to, you know. Not get lost.”

They prepare in determined, if grim, silence. Cassandra straps her sword to her hip and stomps her way into her boots while Rapunzel fishes a jar of paint from the depths of her coat and crams it into an outer pocket instead, swatting strands of blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Ready?”

“When you are,” Cassandra says, reaching for her hand.

“Okay.” Rapunzel shuts her eyes, taking several deep breaths like she’s screwing up her courage—then, in a quiet, tremulous voice, she slides into the first, melancholy notes of the incantation.

“F-flower, gleam and glow… Let your power shine…”

Without the frantic edge of her first recitation, Cassandra thinks, it’s a… pretty enough song—a little sad—though the pain it holds for Rapunzel keeps it from being beautiful. As Rapunzel finishes the first verse, the golden light filters into her hair again, and by the end of the second, the whole cavern is aglow with summer. The faint shine of the worms vanishes, doused by the brighter light; the hot spring glitters; the steam winks with motes of sunlight.

Rapunzel’s hair haloes her head, gossamer and radiant and _gold;_ billowing as if she’s underwater. Cassandra is halfway to running her fingers through it to see if it feels as warm as it looks before she remembers herself—she drags her lip through her teeth, and breathes out, and squeezes Rapunzel’s hand. “You alright?”

“Mm-hm.” Slowly, Rapunzel cracks open her eyes, and begins the incantation again with greater confidence. She gestures at the mouth of the tunnel, quirking one eyebrow at Cassandra.

Nodding, Cassandra takes the lead. They edge around the spring, then follow the thin, burbling stream of hot water that feeds it from the depths of the cave. Her worries about cold, at least, prove unfounded; if anything, the tunnel becomes _warmer_ the further they go. Thick clouds of steam shroud their path, sparkling in the steady shine of Rapunzel’s hair.

Glow worms and moss coat the walls, parting here and there around colorful splatters of lichen, all slick with steam; pale little mushrooms grow in irregular patches from damp crevices in the stone floor. Nothing stirs but them; whatever creatures live in this cave, they must be scared of the light. A small comfort.

At length, they come to an intersection. Rapunzel’s quiet singing echoes oddly in the juncture as she scrawls a large yellow arrow pointing back the way they came.

She’s replacing the cap when Cassandra hears it: A distant voice whispering out of the lefthand tunnel. “—someone there?”

For one awful second, she fears it’s another trick of her mind—but Rapunzel freezes, startled as she is, and as the golden light begins to fade, she shouts, “Hello?”

“Princess!” _Xavier_ —his voice far away but jubilant. “Is that you?”

“The light, Raps,” Cassandra whispers, nudging her, and Rapunzel leaps into another repetition of the incantation. Louder, she calls, “We’re here! Me and Rapunzel—can you see the light?”

“I can.”

“That’s us! Just come towards it—we’ll wait for you.”

It takes several minutes. She hears Xavier long before they see him—footsteps echoing through the tunnel, then careful breathing and intermittent calls assuring them that he’s still on his way—until, at last, he rounds a corner and the light spills over him, welcoming.

He stops short, dazzled by it. Opens his mouth—closes it—shakes his head, and hurries to close the last bit of distance.

“Well! I cannot say I expected, ah… this.”

Xavier looks no worse for wear. Frazzled, but his eyes shine as bright as they ever do in his forge. His furry cloak hangs limp from his shoulders, damp from all the steam.

“How did you get here?”

“Where are the others?” Rapunzel adds, rushing the words out between one verse of the incantation and the next.

“They’re fine.” Xavier makes a placating little motion with his hands, smiling. “Last I saw, they had gotten clear of the rocks, and were headed back towards Herrfeld. I decided it would be best to follow you girls—but when the weather turned, I’m afraid I became a little lost. Fortunately, I was able to take shelter in here. I assume the same happened to you.”

“Pretty much,” Cassandra says.

“It’s good that we found each other, then. Fortune smiles even in the darkest times, does it not? And now that we are all together, I think we have the chance to fulfill our original purpose in leaving Herzingen.”

“The ritual?”

“Indeed.” Rubbing his chin, he squints down the unexplored fork of the tunnel. “I propose that we search for the deepest chamber of these caves, and perform the ritual there, where the anchor will be left undisturbed. Once the weather is clear, we can return to Herrfeld safely and regroup with the others.”

Cassandra grins. She hadn’t believed herself when she told Rapunzel everything would be alright, but now, _now_ —it feels like it might.

_Except I’m still going to lose my job._

_But—at least it won’t have been for nothing._

## ❦

They walk until Rapunzel’s voice gives out; then Cassandra takes up the incantation, and they walk some more.

She’s halfway through her twenty-sixth repetition when the tunnel spills them out into a chamber so _vast_ even the brilliance of Rapunzel’s hair can’t illuminate the whole space.

“Oh, my—”

High, _high_ above, the ceiling opens, letting dim grey light filter down into the cave. Snow falls in drifting spirals through the gap, and plumes of steam curl in the air. A hulking shape crouches in the gloom beyond the reach of Rapunzel’s hair.

“What _is_ this place?” Rapunzel whispers.

“For one thing,” Xavier murmurs behind them, “it is not a natural cave.”

There’s a quiet _snick._ Cassandra turns in time to see the spark from his flint; then, with a loud _whoosh,_ the flame catches—and races down a long, shallow trough cut into the wall.

Her mouth falls open, and the incantation dwindles into silence as the fire spreads to encircle the whole chamber. The firelight reveals the colossal masonry—the walls, fitted of enormous blocks of stone, adorned with geometric bas-reliefs that clamber all the way to the ceiling. They’re standing on a huge mezzanine, which plunges into abyssal darkness at the center of the chamber; and rising from the depths is—

—a… _machine,_ of monstrous size—big enough to dwarf the behemoth of the tree that loomed over Janus Point. It’s hewn of tarnished bronze, lacquered wood—bristling with gigantic spheres of a reddish metal Cassandra doesn’t recognize, copper maybe, and with chunks of pale blue crystal affixed to iron rods sticking out in all directions. She can just make out a nightmarish mess of mechanisms peaking through the gaps in the outer cases.

“No _way,_ ” Rapunzel gasps.

“What is _that?_ ”

Xavier gapes at it, evidently rendered speechless by surprise. After a moment, he gives himself a visible shake, clears his throat, and says, “We must– be much further east than I thought. I… believe this is the legendary device which Lord Demanitus used to end Zhan Tiri’s first blizzard.”

“…You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about such serious matters,” Xavier says, though his voice does hold a trace of amusement. “Come—let us take a closer look. This is a most fortunate surprise.”

They find, after a bit of searching, a precarious set of stairs spiraling into the heart of the chamber. Rapunzel begins to mumble the incantation again, lighting the way, and down they go.

There’s no handrail. As they cling to the wall and feel their way down the steep, slippery stairs, Cassandra wonders irately what kind of person could build something like the machine towering over their heads, but forget to add a handrail to stop people from tumbling to their deaths—

Then she remembers Varian, and his cheerful tales of dangerous experiments, and what Eugene told them about his little _demonstration_ with the black rocks, and decides, _Varian. Varian is that kind of person._

The stairs flatten out at the bottom into a damp walkway, so narrow they have to go single file along it. It falls away on either side into a pool of boiling water; the air feels thick and _disgustingly_ hot, and somewhere beneath the layers of spine-chilling terror that comes from being one slip away from plunging into a seething hot spring and cooking herself alive, Cassandra has room to regret not shedding her winter clothes before they began their descent.

The platform at the base of the device doesn’t have a handrail, either, but it’s at least wide enough to stand on with some confidence. They huddle up against the device, drenched and panting, and Xavier smooths a hand against the tarnished metal.

“Incredible,” he murmurs. “The device must channel the steam from the spring to power itself—hmm…”

“Think it still works?” Cassandra asks. A circular wooden crank projects from the base of the device; when she brushes her hand against one of its spokes, her fingers come away slick with mildew. “Gross.”

“It is worth a try. And… if it does, I suspect it will provide faster relief from the storm than the binding ritual. Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Rapunzel slots herself between two spokes of the crank, her eyes vivid with excitement. “Ready? Cass, give us a count to three?”

Then she begins to sing again. Cassandra grabs another spoke, waits for Xavier to find his own position, and calls, “One! Two! _Three!_ ”

Her feet slide over the damp stone of the walkway as she begins to push. It doesn’t want to budge—they all heave against it—the sunlit glow of Rapunzel’s hair casts dizzying shadows over the walls, and Cassandra has to clamp her eyes shut to settle her stomach—the massive machine squeals, groans, makes a horrible _grinding_ noise—and then begins, at last, to budge.

“That’s—it—” Xavier puffs. “I think—it’s—working—”

As the machine judders into motion, the whole chamber shakes with it. A sharp sizzling noise snaps into life above their heads—then thunder _booms,_ again and again and again. Cassandra risks a peak upward—lightning arcs from one of the crystals affixed to the device and slams into the wall. So bright her eyes _itch_.

More lightning lashes out of the device and tears into the wall. Chunks of rock spray out with the _pock-pock-pock_ sound of stone hitting metal, and Cassandra shouts a warning as they begin to clatter down—“Incoming!”—

The rocks hammer the flared bottom of the machine’s casing and and bounce into the pool, harmless—almost harmless; a rock the size of her _head_ plunges into the water and Cassandra yelps as she ducks away from the boiling splash—

“Cass!”

“I’m fine! Startled! Not hurt!”

Static crackles in the air. It tingles through her fingertips, a thousand tiny stings, makes her hair frizz and _spark_ —there’s a blinding flash of light and a tremendous _BOOM_ that rocks the whole device, and for one heart-stopping second, Cassandra is sure it’ll shake itself apart and bury them in rubble.

Then, with a loud _clack,_ the crank locks into place, and the upper part of the machine begins to spin of its own accord.

Faster, and faster—lightning pours off the device, clawing at the walls—the wind _shrieks_ —

And with one last, deafening roar, it all stops.

The chamber darkens. The aftershocks reverberate in her bones as the machine coasts to a grinding stop. More rocks and little clods of soil rain down for several minutes before the last pebble _plinks_ into the water and then—there’s no sound but their own labored breathing.

Cassandra sags against the crank, blinking spots out of her eyes. Behind her, Rapunzel shakily begins the incantation again.

As the first gleam of golden light pierces the darkness, she sees—

_flickering movement_

—twin pinpricks of lurid green kindle in the shadows where the crank slots into the machine. Cassandra jerks back, but not quick enough—something small and dark lunges out and snaps at her hand—and she shrieks as its teeth shred through her glove and pierce the flesh of her palm.

“Cassandra!”

Swearing, she clutches her hand to her chest. Her eyes water. She’s been bitten by rats before while cleaning out the palace storerooms, and this feels a lot like that—a small pain, but _sharp._

She imagines laughter in the creak of settling metal inside the machine.

“Cass! Cass, what happened?! Are you—”

“Something _bit_ me,” she snarls.

A rat, or some other small wild thing that nested inside the casing. Provoked by the disruption of its home. Cassandra swears again, takes a deep gulp of air, and adds, “I’m fine, let’s—come on, let’s get upstairs.”

“What bit you?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t get a good look. C’mon. The light, Raps?”

Rapunzel sings, and the three of them fumble their way back up the stairs. The mezzanine is littered with debris, but sunlight streams through the gap in the ceiling, and they all breathe a sigh of relief.

Grunting, Cassandra crouches down and tugs the glove off her hand to examine the bite. “ _Stars_ —”

“How bad?”

“It’s not,” she mutters. Her skin swells around a gash no wider than her little fingernail, and though blood oozes out of the torn flesh, the bite doesn’t look deep. It just _stings,_ and, sighing, she says as much.

“Maybe… I could heal it?” Rapunzel suggests.

“…What? Oh, the– hair. Sure.”

Feeling a bit ridiculous, she offers Rapunzel her hand, palm up. Rapunzel takes it and solemnly places it against the side of her head, ignoring Cassandra’s protest of, “But– the blood—”

And, while Xavier looks on with interest, Rapunzel closes her eyes and begins, once more, to sing.

_Flower, gleam and glow._

_Let your power shine…_

It _does_ feel warm, like basking in sunlight on a hot summer day. She shivers as the heat envelops her hand, not sure what to expect—for the pain to sigh and fade into nothing, maybe. Rapunzel mentioned, once, that the sundrop’s healing left no scars behind.

But her palm still stings when Rapunzel breathes out the last line, and when Cassandra pulls her hand away, the skin is still bloody and torn. They both stare at it for a moment, she bemused, Rapunzel dismayed.

“It didn’t work?!”

“Guess not.” Shrugging, she wipes at the blood speckling Rapunzel’s hair.

“Here,” Xavier says, stepping forward. He pulls a handkerchief out of his coat, and Cassandra lets him bandage her hand with it. Mildly, he adds, “So—it would seem the black rocks restored the sundrop’s light, but not the mythical healing powers. How mysterious.”

“Plus side,” Cassandra says, because Rapunzel looks much more devastated than the situation demands, “the storm’s over.”

She points up the the crescent of clear blue sky visible through the gap in the ceiling, and Rapunzel’s lips rise in a half-hearted smile.

“Shall we head back, Raps? I’m sure the others will be worried sick.”

“Yes– yeah, let’s hurry—”

“I believe my branch of the tunnels may bring us closer to Herrfeld,” Xavier says. “It will be easier going underground than through the deep snow.”

“Lead the way, then,” Rapunzel says. “I’ll—sing.”

She shoots Cassandra one last guilty glance, then sinks into the incantation with something like resignation.

One by one, they file out of the chamber, buoyed by the promise of real sunlight at the end of the tunnels.

## ❦

Emptied now, the chamber subsides into silence as the machine groans its way back to sleep. Small dustings of snow trickle through the gap, tossed by a faint, cool breeze.

One of the clay seals set high in the chamber walls gapes open, cracked, and pitch seeps out of it. The black liquid drips in oozing rivulets down to the dusty mezzanine and puddles there; a filmy iridescence clinging to the viscous surface where the light touches it.

It grows, slowly. Tiny leaves bubble out of it; then frail, twitching tendrils that knit into a dripping lace of bramble. Bones harden and breach the surface, greasy and glistening in the sun.

When all the pitch has run dry, the cracked seal releases a swampy exhalation, and something tiny and green tumbles out. It falls, glittering, and lands in the center of the puddle with a quiet _plop._

The pitch quivers, rippling—and then rears up from the flagstones, a chaotic heap of black slime and bone and bramble and dust which twists and churns and then _yanks_ itself into the shape of a person. Pallid grey flesh smoothes over planes of bone and strands of tar and limbs of bramble; and, laughing, Sugracha il Pchela throws out a grimy hand to steady herself against the wall. Wild cobwebs of hair spill down her back; a loose gown of shadows congeals into place.

She grins.

A shadow passes over her head as a raven swoops through the gap in the ceiling; the bird descends in lazy spirals and alights on a piece of rubble.

“My _Lady,_ ” Sugracha purrs, smoothing hair out of her face. A mantle of coarse black fur spindles out of her shoulders; dangling legs, a suggestion of piceous hooves. “I’ll free the others—”

“No.”

The voice oozes between the raven’s greasy feathers, palpably thick.

“No?”

Feathers ruffled, voice rich with amusement, the raven says, “Never reap before you’ve sown, dearheart.”

“How long—”

“Not _yet,_ ” the raven replies, clipped. “Lay your snares, widen the cracks, tend to the sundrop—and dispose of the blacksmith, if you can do so… discreetly.” Her voice turns thoughtful. “He knows more than I would like.”

Sugracha purses her lips, less than pleased. She winds her fingers through her hair and gathers it up into a tight knot at the base of her skull, and, sighing, nods.

“Sixteen hundred and seventy-three years,” the raven says, not unkindly. A green spark flares in the hollow socket of her eye; she croaks once, a louder, harsher, _realer_ sound. “We are so _close_.”

“I know.”

The raven chuckles. “Good hunting, dearheart.”

She spreads her wings; her shadow fans out like an oil slick, wisping into thin tendrils around the edges; and Sugracha watches her soar out of the chamber with a faint, faint smile.


	19. Chapter 18: Suns Run to Seed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Injuries.

###  **Chapter 18: Suns Run to Seed**

He’s never run so fast in his life.

Fear lends a quickness to his feet; Varian skims over the hardened crusts of drifted snow, light, shouting—half maddened by adrenaline—his scar _aching_ and he knows, he knows, he can almost

_see it–_

And when the earth goes still at last, the sudden silence sends him to his knees in the snowbank at the crest of a small hill. Icy air glides in and out of his lungs, nipping at the lining of his throat. He pants in time with the pounding heartbeat of the rocks, while Eugene and Lance stumble to a halt beside him.

“Ohhh, boy.” Eugene braces himself on his knees, wheezing. “Hoo, mama, that– that is not—how I expected this little adventure to go.”

Lance slaps him on the back and nods as he gulps air. “Heh– heh. How… are ya doing… kid?”

He’s too winded to answer just yet, but he raises a shaky thumbs-up to reassure the pair that he isn’t hurt; the cold backwash of their frantic sprint across the plain makes him nauseous, his vision blurring until he clamps his eyes shut.

An apology wriggles up from the darkness behind his eyelids. The _reality_ of what just happened feels distant—like some crow circling over a corpse, waiting for the wolves to finish eating their fill. He put the Princess of Corona _in danger._ He– he may have gotten her _killed_ —he remembers—

Not… _much_ about the explosion itself. The rock, shining, blinding. Rapunzel, eyes widening, mouth agape, reaching to touch—maybe Cass shouted—and… then… Cold air, rushing—a flight, a fall. If it weren’t for all the snow he thinks the landing might have killed him. Small blessings.

Clutching the stitch in his side, Varian struggles to his feet. Can’t sit around in— “I’m- I-I’m good,” he pants. Eugene grabs the back of his neck and gives him a congratulatory sort of shake.

“Alright,” Eugene says. “All…right. First order of business—”

“—we go back to Herrfeld,” Lance interjects.

“But Rapunzel—”

“—is with Cassandra.” Grunting, Lance stamps his feet like it’ll do anything to chase away the bitter cold. “What d’you think she’ll be thinking, Eugene? ‘Oh, boy, better sit tight and wait around for the guys to find us—’ nah. They’ll loop right back to the village as soon as they can.”

 _Logical._ Varian didn’t get a good look at anything before Lance tossed him away from the exploding rocks, but he did catch one fleeting glimpse of Cass dragging the Princess away in the opposite direction. If they followed a straight line southeast they should be able to orient themselves toward the village by sight. _If_ they made it.

“Fine.” Eugene squeezes his shoulder, his face an unhappy rictus lurching toward resolve. “We’ll head for the village and wait. But if they’re not back by nightfall—”

“My dad’ll organize a search party,” Varian supplies. He coughs against the sharp cold sitting in his lungs and tries for a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Eugene—he’s good at finding people.”

Some of the tension in Eugene’s face eases, and he nods. “Alright, then. Can you get us back to Herrfeld from here?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s, hn, that’s easy—it’s this way.”

Buried in snow or not, Varian _knows_ these plains. But his confident smile fades as he looks around to orient himself northwest and his eyes adjust to the flat, white light of their surroundings. His heart drops like a stone.

The rocks shattered the smooth farmland of his home. Jagged black lines lace the white expanse like the fracture lines in a broken pane of glass, radiating out in crooked seams from the scar of the petrified forest and stretching as far as he can see—and in the distance, where there should be a bluish pucker in the snow to mark Herrfeld’s presence—

Black stones claws at the sky. It looks for all the world like a gigantic, bony hand rose up from the ground and enclosed the village in its fist.

No.

_No._

Someone shouts— _he_ shouts, but it sounds far away, like he’s hearing a cry out of that cage of rock instead of from his own throat—and he’s running again. Eugene’s grasp slips from his shoulder, and he ignores Lance’s startled exclamation as he charges as fast as his legs can carry him through the deepening snow. Flakes swirl between him and _home,_ feathering his cheeks with cold. _No, no, no—_

Tears stream from his eyes and freeze and crack; he’s aware of Eugene and Lance catching up, running with him. At one point he trips and falls headlong into the snow, but Eugene hauls him out again and they’re closer—under the shadow of those towering black jaws—

“No, nono—”

The rocks form a solid wall at the base, but Varian doesn’t even break his stride when he reaches them; he _jumps_ and it’s just like climbing trees in winter when the frost slicks their branches—pressure threaded from hand to foot as he claws his way up—once a near-slip that might have dropped him onto the spikes below and skewered him, prompting shouts of alarm from below—but he won’t fall because he _refuses to fall,_ and then he’s _there,_ he’s high enough to squeeze through a gap between the larger stones and he can _see_ —

Houses spitted on massive spikes and wrenched out of the encroaching snow. The careful network of trenches half destroyed by eruptions of stone.

Bodies–

_blood on the snow—_

Varian screams.

“Dad! _Dad!_ ”

He slithers between the rocks and lands with a thick spray of powder, then wriggles and squirms his way through of the dense clusters of rock below until he breaks free into the more open space further in—

“ _Dad!_ ”

_Where is he, where—I don’t see him—_

His feet go out from under him, and he catches himself against a rock with such force that his teeth rattle, but he’s running again in a second. Activity where the bodies lay, other villagers hurrying back and forth, dragging the wounded or dead away on children’s sleds, but he can’t see Dad’s familiar bulk moving among them.

Someone shouts, “Varian’s here!”

“Oh, thank goodness—”

“Over here, Varian!”

 _Relief_ isn’t a tone he’s accustomed to hearing in combination with his own name, and hearing it now does nothing to allay his panic. He veers toward the closest knot of villagers, skidding to a stop in front of a young man lying prone in the snow with blood all down his front but— _sun and stars, thank you_ —still breathing. George Hafner, that’s his name, farmhand for the Duvals, Varian’s only spoken to him once or twice before—

Mr. Duval and his son Jerome are kneeling in the snow next to him, and Mr. Duval offers Varian a quick nod as they hoist George onto a sled. “Good to see you, lad, we’ve got a lot of folks injured.”

“He needs pressure on that cut,” Varian says at once. He can see it now, through the shredded gap in George’s coat—a slash right across his chest, mercifully shallow. “Here—”

Hurriedly, he unwinds his scarf from his neck and tosses it to Jerome, who wads it up against George’s chest; Mr. Duval grunts, approving, and claps his son’s shoulder. “Get him in with the others—Varian, come with me.”

“What _happened?_ ” Varian asks as Jerome begins to push George away on the sled, and Mr. Duval them toward the next injured villager huddled in the snow. “Where’s Dad?!”

“Quirin’s alright,” Mr. Duval grunts. “Injured, but not bad. Arm’s dislocated—one of these rocks took him across the shoulder, but the cut’s not too deep. He’s in the tavern—we’ve been gathering the wounded there, it’s the only place in town big enough for all of ’em—”

“But what _happened?_ ” Stupid question, he _knows_ —but the sight of black rocks twisting together overhead, cutting the sky into thin grey slices, makes his stomach churn. _How could this–_ why _did this happen?!_

“ _Damned_ if I know.” He crouches in front of the injured woman, who’s so wrapped up in scarves Varian doesn’t recognize her until Mr. Duval says, “Where’s it hurt, Beatrice?”

“Wasn’t even the rocks,” she puffs, reaching for his hand. Mr. Duval gives it to her, and she clambers her way upright, clutching onto him the whole way and wincing whenever her left foot touches the ground. Sprained at the least, Varian thinks— “Slipped, fell, hurt my ankle—silly. Hallo, Varian.”

“Hey, Mrs. B.”

With Mr. Duval’s support, Beatrice manages to hobble along with them as they navigate the precarious slope down into the trenches. “Rocks came out of nowhere,” Mr. Duval adds, nodding to Varian again. “Not too long ago—fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? Ripped straight through the village and then grew into– _that._ ” He jerks his chin upward. “Never seen the like.”

“It sounded like the end of the world,” Beatrice murmurs. “Remember when lightning struck the old silo, Gabe? Back in, what was it—”

“Fifty-nine,” Mr. Duval says.

“That long ago! You wouldn’t remember, Varian, you were just a baby,” Beatrice continues. “But the silo collapsed, and I’ll _never_ forget the noise it made—the thunder, and the stone… I think this was even louder.”

“I can imagine,” Varian whispers weakly.

“No one’s hurt too bad,” Mr. Duval adds. “Some nasty gashes, and we think poor old Adelric’s got a few broken ribs, but—”

“Varian!”

He starts. In the tumult of the last few minutes he completely forgot about— “Eugene! Lance!”

“Friends of yours?” Mr. Duval asks in an undertone.

They’re slogging through the snow toward him now, evidently having found a way through the outer perimeter of the rocks; Varian waves them down, and to Mr. Duval says, “Yeah—can you get Mrs. B. to the tavern? I’ll stop by the apothecary with them to pick up some stuff and meet you there.”

“Of course.” Approval glimmers in Mr. Duval’s eyes for the instant before he turns away and helps Beatrice continue, limping, down the path to the tavern, and Varian shakes his head, feeling a bit dazed. Sure, people flock to his apothecary whenever the flu season hits, but feeling _needed_ in a real crisis is—strange. He’s more used to _blame._

“Kid—what happened? Is everyone—”

“No one’s dead,” Varian says. He grabs Eugene by the wrist and nods for Lance to follow them, too, as he veers toward his house. The old stone building stands a little taller than most of the others, and even from here he can see that it wasn’t spared by the onslaught of rocks—one enormous spike pierces right through the roof—but if they’re lucky the adjoining wing where he runs the apothecary will still be intact. “But there’s a lot of people injured and I need you guys to help me bring some supplies from the apothecary to the tavern where they’re being kept—we need, hn, disinfectants, sutures, lots of bandages, stuff for pain.” He ticks off each item on his gloved fingers.

“Well, you can count on us,” Eugene says.

“Yeah!”

Varian grins. He has the feeling it looks a bit crazed, but that’s fine. “Heh– thanks, guys.”

_And once everybody’s patched up, we can organize a search for the others._

_Everything’s going to be fine._

## ❦

Avoiding Dad isn’t something Varian _intends_ —it’s just, when they shoulder their way into the tavern with three crates full of supplies from the apothecary, and Ruddiger a comforting weight on his shoulder, there’s _so much_ work to do that it’s—easy to keep himself busy, away from Dad, whose dislocated arm has been popped back into place by the time they arrive. And the wind blows outside and Varian loses himself in disinfecting, stitching up, washing his hands, moving on until the rhythm eats the whole afternoon. It isn’t until Mr. Portner, the tavern’s owner, goes around lighting the lamps that Varian realizes how late it’s gotten.

He rinses the soap off his hands for what feels like the hundredth time and reaches up to rub Ruddiger behind the ears. The raccoon was waiting for them at the apothecary—as Varian mounted the step and made to unlock the door, Ruddiger had scuttled down from the eaves and, chittering scoldingly, planted himself upon Varian’s shoulders. He hasn’t budged since, other than to tug on bits of hair whenever he feels Varian isn’t giving him sufficient attention.

“Okay, buddy,” Varian mutters. “I know you missed me, but I really— I gotta talk to Dad… alone. Come on.”

Ruddiger grouses as Varian lifts him up and deposits him on the floor, but a stern _No!_ is enough to keep him from clambering right back up Varian’s leg. The raccoon gives him one last sour look before skulking off toward Lance, who’s been slipping him treats all afternoon; and Varian, sighing, rubs his forehead. It’s been a long few days.

Dad is nursing a pint at one of the tables they pushed up against the tavern’s walls to make room for Varian to work. He watches Varian approach over the rim of it, his gaze inscrutable. There’s a bandana tied around his upper arm, rusty with dried blood, and, wincing, Varian makes a detour to grab some fresh bandages and one of the pitchers Mr. Portner’s been filling with clean, boiled water.

“H- hi, Dad.”

“Son.”

Dad sets his flagon down and turns in his seat, offering up his arm, and sits in silence while Varian focuses on picking apart the knotted bandana.

He’s just tugged it free when Dad says, “Can’t say I expected– this.”

 _This,_ Varian thinks, could mean any number of things. He nods, struggling to keep the guilt off his face. _He_ brought Rapunzel to the rocks. _He_ let her touch them. _He’s_ the reason Herrfeld is in ruins and twenty-eight people are injured.

“M-Mr. Besim thought—”

Dad waves him into silence, then grunts as the movement tears open the scabbed cut on his arm. “Mr. Fitzherbert told me,” he says, sighing, while Varian begins to daub carefully at his shoulder. “Varian—”

“I’m sorry!” Varian whispers. His shoulders hitch up and it’s suddenly hard to breathe; like all the _weight_ of– everything’s all crashing down on him at once. Miserable tears well into his eyes, blurring his view of Dad’s cut, and he blinks furiously to clear his vision. “I- I’m sorry, Daddy, I sh-should’ve– I should’ve listened to you, you were _right,_ I-I—”

He chokes off with a startled murmur as Dad swings around and pulls him roughly into a hug. Varian gulps, the scratchy feel of Dad’s wool vest shocking him out of his tears while Dad smooths his fingers over the back of his head.

“D- Dad?”

“I’m just so glad you’re safe,” Dad says. He sighs before letting Varian go. There’s a small, tired smile on his face. “And– I’m proud of what you’ve done here,” he adds, nodding toward the other villagers.

Most of the wounded are on their feet again by now, bandaged and splinted and in good enough spirits, considering the circumstances. Even old Adelric, whose ribs were indeed broken, looks like the willow tea Varian made for him has done its work to ease the pain, and he’s digging into one of Mr. Portner’s meat pies with gusto.

“But it’s my fault they got hurt in the first place,” Varian whispers.

Dad squeezes his shoulder. “I’d say the five adults who were with you when it happened share some responsibility,” he mutters. “And what matters is how you handle your mistakes. Helping people– healing. Miriam… Your mother would be so proud of you.”

His lungs feel like they’re crumpling. “Dad—”

“And I am, too.”

Shuddering, Varian clamps his eyes shut before any tears can fall. Dad _never_ talks about Mom—even keeping the apothecary open at all had been a bitter point of contention between them, in those awful few months after she died. He never expected—

Maybe the past couple weeks without Varian around changed things. Or maybe Dad just hit his head on one of the rocks. Either way— “Th- thanks, Dad,” he says, sniffling, as he opens his eyes again. “I, um. I- I need to—your shoulder…”

Another smile crinkles the lines around Dad’s eyes, and Varian answers it with a watery smile of his own before returning his attention to the cut on Dad’s arm. Quiet settles, but a comfortable kind of quiet, as he cleans away the mess of coagulated blood to reveal the cut itself—an ugly, tattered gash across the outside of Dad’s shoulder, flanked by swollen skin and a whole bouquet of bruises. It’s messy, but not as bad as the scabbing made it look, and Varian breathes out a sigh of relief as he hurries away to retrieve some of his dwindling supply of disinfectant.

_He’s not mad. And he’s going to be okay._

## ❦

Dusk is settling like a blanket over the snow by the time they emerge from the caves. Cassandra shivers as they step out of the dank, humid darkness and the sharper air of the outside flows over her damp cheeks, but the crispbreeze lacks the blizzard’s _bite._ It feels like late Tárosh again.

And the sky is vast and empty above, bruising into night. Early stars glint down at them; the mountains rear at their backs, closer than Cassandra would have guessed, and in the distance she can see the twinkling glow of Herzingen onthe western horizon, a golden ember against the rosy fire of the sunset.

Relief trickles in. She knows where they are, more or less.

“We’re a ways southeast of Herrfeld,” she says. After hours trading the incantation back and forth, her throat feels raw, and her voice sounds like it’s been sanded down; she winces. “Seven or eight miles, I’d say.”

“If we keep a brisk pace, I believe we can make it before it is fully dark,” Xavier says. “That way we can all rest our voices.”

He grins. Rapunzel skims her hand through her hair with a rueful smile before jamming her hat back into place, and Cassandra squeezes her shoulder before stepping forward to take the lead.

With the air lying still and the vicious, icy cold mellowed into late-autumn frost, they make good progress through the sparse trees that surround the cave, and from there it’s a quick slide across the frozen river and down into the ravaged plains of the Anbruch area. It’s a little eerie, threading their way through the shadowed, thorny maze the black rocks have made of the fields. The darkness drips closer like ink; when they pass too close, Rapunzel’s hair flickers gold and the glossy stones answer with a spark of blue-white light that feels like nothing so much as a _threat._

They give the rocks a wide berth.

By her estimate, they’ve been walking about an hour when they begin to hear the cries and see the bobbing lanterns in the distance. Search parties, shouting for Rapunzel, for Xavier, for her. Cassandra cups her hands to her mouth and calls out a response, and Rapunzel tugs off her hat and begins to mumble the incantation again, and the orange beams of the lanterns swing their way, one by one.

“Come on—”

Shouts of relief roll across the plains to welcome them as they hurry to meet the nearest search party, skirting around a jagged outcropping of the black rocks and then slogging through snowbanks as deep as Cassandra’s waist to get there.

“ _Rapunzel!_ Oh, thank the heavens you’re okay—”

“Eugene!”

Rapunzel bounds into Eugene’s open arms the second they’re close enough, half-laughing, half-crying, and Cassandra smiles, feeling a little weary, watching them. The rest of the search party is composed of Lance—who pats her shoulder in greeting and mutters, “Ah, love,” in a wry tone that tells her everything she needs to know about how frantic Eugene must have been for Rapunzel’s safety—and Varian, and a giant of a man who introduces himself in a low, gravelly voice as Quirin Kardossh, Varian’s father.

“No one’s hurt?” Quirin adds, glancing from Cassandra to Xavier and then, with evident relief, to Rapunzel.

“We are well,” Xavier replies. “And we have broken the curse of the blizzard, so the danger is past, for now.”

“You finished the ritual?” Varian’s _without me?_ goes unspoken, but Cassandra can hear it in the faint, envious tinge of his voice.

“No,” she says, smirking. “But—we _did_ find Demanitus’s weather machine.”

“You _what?!_ ”

Snickering, Cassandra launches into the tale, beginning with their fall into the cavern with the hot spring. Rapunzel’s glowing blonde hair, their accidental discovery of the device, and her dramatic retelling of their effort to turn it on again carries them most of the way back to Herrfeld, and then Quirin forestalls any questions by clearing his throat and saying, “I’m afraid we can’t bring the Princess all the way back to Herrfeld.”

“What? Why not?”

“The rocks,” he says, “have enclosed the village. There aren’t any gaps big enough to walk through without touching them—and given what happened the last time you touched those rocks, Your Highness…”

“Oh. Oh, no, is everyone—”

Quirin puts up a hand, stopping her. “We’re fine for now, Your Highness. There were some injuries, but none dire; the damage to our homes is much worse, but enough buildings remain intact for everyone to take shelter from the cold. Our most pressing problem, now, is food, and medical supplies. We were prepared to face the winter until the black rocks ripped through most of our storehouses. Now…” he sighs. “If you could petition your father for supplies on our behalf, Princess, we would all be in your debt.”

“Of course!” Rapunzel gasps. “Anything I can do to help.”

“I’ve put together a list of everything we need. Food, everything… Varian said he needs to keep our wounded healthy until they’ve healed—” he casts a small, proud smile in his son’s direction, and Varian beams “—and building materials. We have a lot of houses to repair.”

“If people need housing for the wintertime, I’m sure we can find places for them in Herzingen,” Rapunzel says as she accepts the roll of paper Quirin passes to her.

“That would be appreciated, Your Highness,” Quirin replies. They’re in view of Herrfeld now; a ragged, spiky mass, black against the velvety indigo sky. Cassandra shivers. “We’ll need some time to figure that out—our innkeeper, Mr. Portner, has offered free lodgings through the winter to anyone in need, and that may be enough to provide everyone with a warm place to stay. Butknowing Herzingen has offered its hospitality will be a comfort while we make arrangements.”

“Good. I- I’m glad.”

“I wish we could offer you more help for your return to the capital,” he adds. “But all our horses are trapped inside—”

“Oh– oh, you don’t need to—”

“We’ve packed you what supplies we can spare, some extra cloaks, and plenty of fuel for the lanterns.” Quirin waves Rapunzel’s objections away with a sigh and another tired smile. “Road out of the village’s buried, but if you head due west from here, you can be in Anbruch by midnight. Don’t think the rocks spread that far, so you should be able to catch a sledge to Herzingen from there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kardossh,” Rapunzel whispers. “We’ll be back in a week with more help—I’m so sorry this happened.”

Quirin spends a long, uncomfortably quiet moment considering his next words, and Cassandra watches the lantern light glitter in his dark eyes, wondering what he’s thinking. What _exactly_ Varian and the others told him about the explosion of rocks that destroyed his home.

Then, quietly, he says, “What’s done is done, Your Highness. We’ll survive.”

## ❦

Rapunzel didn’t expect this to be so _hard._

After they left Herrfeld, they kept up a brisk march until they reached the city of Anbruch, which shone like an ember behind its crumbling stone fortifications. Those walls were relics, Cassandra had said, of the Fort Anbruch, which straddled the border between Corona and Saporia in the days when the two nations were at war.

They made themselves known to the guards posted at the gate, who ushered them into the barracks of the Anbruch City Watch for hot cocoa and a warm fire. Captain Reis had been roused from his bed, and a pigeon sent ahead to Herzingen to alert her father to her whereabouts. In pretty short order a sledge was arranged to take them home, and they bid Anbruch goodbye within the hour.

She doesn’t remember much of their first day of travel, just dozing in the sledge beneath a heap of blankets, exhausted by their journey and the ordeal with the rocks. The second and third days were uneventful, pleasant even, marked by clear skies and glittering expanses of snow. Cassandra was quiet, but Rapunzel wasn’t too worried about that—she knew her friend was brooding about the security of her job, but she couldn’t believe that Cass was in any real danger of actually losing it. She’d only done what Rapunzel asked, after all, and Rapunzel had every intention of emphasizing that Cassandra saved her life once again.

They couldn’t fire her for that. It wouldn’t be _fair._

But a grim-faced Sir Peter met them at the bridge, and he hadn’t said a word to his daughter as he escorted them to the palace, and that– that makes her _nervous._ Once they’d arrived, Sir Peter sent her to face her father alone, claiming a need to take formal statements from the others about just what had happened in Herrfeld.

Now, standing before her father in the prickling emptiness of the throne room, Rapunzel can’t shake the feeling that she’s in real trouble.

She’d imagined meeting both her parents—Mom must be just as eager to know if she’d accomplished the goal she outlined in her note—but instead, it’s just her and Dad. The throne room seems colder and lonelier without anyone but them inside it; she doesn’t think she’s ever seen it without guards posted at the entrances and courtiers flitting along the edges while petitioners line up to present their requests.

Soft afternoon sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, giving the room an incongruously cheerful brightness. Dad sits on his throne, haggard, his gaze somehow hollow, and Rapunzel forces down the urge to fidget. She feels like she’s standing on a precipice in the dark, unable to see what waits for her at the bottom.

“Please,” Dad says, his voice rough and low, after a few uncomfortable moments of utter silence, “explain to me why–”

His voice breaks. He shuts his eyes, and it’s only then that it occurs to Rapunzel that her disappearance _scared_ him. The note she intended to soothe any worries he might have during her absence evidently hadn’t worked as she intended—she should have added more detail, or explained the urgency of it all better, or made her reassurances more plain, or—guilt snakes through her gut. She laces her fingers together in front of herself and looks down, biting her lip.

“Dad, I…”

“You—” He takes several deep breaths, and when he speaks again, he sounds a little steadier. “Sweetheart, the- the night you were taken from us was the worst night of my life. I swore every _day_ between then and the day of your return that if I- if I ever saw you again, I would go to any lengths to keep you safe. To protect you, as I couldn’t protect you then.”

Rapunzel shrinks into herself. The comparison hadn’t even crossed her mind. “I wasn’t kidnapped,” she whispers.

“I know,” Dad says raggedly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He gets to his feet, and when he strides across the throne room to pull her into a desperately tight embrace, Rapunzel throws her arms around his middle and returns it with interest. She really hadn’t meant to hurt him. “Oh, darling, I love you so much. I- I’m grateful that you left that note, and I… understand that you did what you thought was best. Knowing that– it was the only thing that kept me going this week. But… I worried, too. A kidnapper could have forced you to write that note, or forged one in your handwriting. That fear kept me up at night.”

“I’m so sorry, Dad.” Tears prickle beneath her eyelids. “I- I didn’t think–”

“No,” he says. “I know, darling. I’m not angry with– I know you were trying to do the right thing, and I’m proud of you for that. And _relieved,_ that you’re back safe and sound. But– please, tell me the full story. I- I need to hear it from you. What happened while you were gone? What caused… _this?_ ”

His fingers card through the strands of blonde hair feathering against her cheek; Rapunzel, sighing, tucks it behind her ear. Cassandra had tried to trim it for her before they left Anbruch, and they’d ruined the scissors Captain Reis loaned to them in the process. It was like the rocks had conferred some of their indestructibility into her hair.

“It’s… a long story,” she mumbles.

“We have time.”

Seeing no way out of it, Rapunzel bows her head and sidles into her explanation. She starts with Xavier’s legends and his theory about what the Separatists attempted to do at Janus Point; dawdles her way through the cold but boring journey to Herrfeld, sprints across her explosive brush with the rocks, and lingers again on everything that happened after she and Cassandra plunged into their cave. When she comes to the plight of Varian’s village, she pauses to dig Quirin’s petition from her pocket and says, “Dad, Herrfeld is in trouble. The rocks destroyed most of the town—there weren’t any casualties, but they need supplies—”

Dad stops her with a raised palm, and she falters into silence. His expression sits at a confusion juncture between sadness and pain and something else she can’t decipher—it makes him look older. Much more like a king with the weight of a country balanced on his shoulders. Tired. “I’ll see to it that is all taken care of,” he murmurs, taking the petition. He unfurls it gingerly and frowns at the listed requests, then adds, “Quirin is an old friend of mine. I trust his judgment—if he believes our aid is necessary, it is. Herrfeld will get the help it needs.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

“However,” Dad continues, his frown deepening as he looks up at her, “This still leaves the matter of what _you_ did, Rapunzel.”

“What?”

“You are Corona’s princess, Rapunzel. Your decisions are… not free of consequence. Your kingdom needs you to stay safe, but you put yourself and your friends in grave danger. From the sound of it, you may have inadvertently _caused_ this disaster.” He gestures at the petition, and Rapunzel flinches.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Nevertheless, those rocks… _responded_ to you, with dire consequences. If you hadn’t joined Mr. Besim in his… venture, that could not have happened. And involving yourself with _magic,_ Rapunzel? Performing rituals? That is not… appropriate for—”

“ _You_ did,” Rapunzel protests. “You used the sundrop to save Mom—”

“Yes. But that was not a decision I made lightly, Rapunzel, and it is not the same as- as dealing with _demons_ like Zhan Tiri.”

“To _stop_ Zhan Tiri!”

“That is not a distinction that matters,” Dad says, with greater urgency now. “Rapunzel, there were greater consequences for taking the sundrop flower than you understand. It was not a decision that endeared me to the Sunlit Temple—even _today,_ there are political costs that I must pay. Costs that look like nothing compared to what you will endure if rumors spread that you are involved _in any way_ with Zhan Tiri or his ilk.”

“So you think I should have just done _nothing_ and let the blizzard destroy Corona?” Rapunzel gapes at him. “Because of _politics?_ ”

“You should have done nothing and _let Mr. Besim handle it._ Sometimes, private citizens can act with greater freedom than a monarch—and from the sound of it, he didn’t even want you to come along.”

 _Cassandra said so, too._ Rapunzel cringes. “Dad—”

“No ruler can do everything,” Dad continues, relentless but not unkindly. “And there are some things a King—or Queen— _cannot_ do. You must learn how to delegate, and when it is best to do things… quietly, for the sake of your country. You could have supplied Mr. Besim with provisions for his journey, as a demonstration of tacit support, instead of _joining_ him, for example.” He sighs, a deep and tired sound. “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘grounding,’ Rapunzel?”

“ _Dad_ —”

“I will take your tone as a yes,” he says. The sliver of wry humor in his voice is better than the _bleak_ way he sounded at the beginning of this conversation; but it doesn’t comfort her much. “You’re grounded, Rapunzel. Until the beginning of spring, on the nineteenth of Shaecaher—”

“That’s _five months_ from now!”

“You will not leave the palace, period, for the rest of the week,” he continues. “After that, you will have free reign of the palace grounds, but you may not visit the city without my express permission and the accompaniment of a full security detail. You will not leave the island, and you will not enter the labyrinth. If your friends help you evade these restrictions, as they have in the past, they will be placed under house arrest for one week, and you will not be allowed to see them.”

He rests his hands on her shoulders, sympathy written into his expression, while Rapunzel stares at him in abject horror. “If you can follow these rules and demonstrate to me that you _fully_ understand why your behavior this past week was unacceptable, I am willing to relax them in as little as one month—but I _must_ see clear proof that I can trust you _not_ to impulsively run off and put yourself in danger again. Do you understand?”

“Dad, I—”

“Do you understand, Rapunzel?”

Tears make her vision hazy. He can’t do this—he _can’t._ It isn’t— “Does Mom know about this?!” she demands.

“…Yes,” Dad says, looking puzzled. “Of course; we discussed it at length after the pigeon from Anbruch arrived with word that you were en route back home, and we agreed that this arrangement is a fair—”

“For _five months?!_ ”

“For a maximum of five months,” Dad says, frowning. “Are you worried about not being allowed to see your friends? I would never do that to you, darling. They’re welcome to visit you in the palace at any time, though Mr. Strongbow and young Mr. Kardossh will have to notify Nigel ahead of time so he can make room in your schedule.”

“ _But—_ ”

It isn’t just isolation from her friends that terrifies her. It’s the thought of being trapped inside, barred from the world outside the palace walls, for _months._ Not a tower again—but close enough to make her skin crawl and the air feel thin in her lungs. She stares pleadingly at her father, _willing_ him to budge, but she can see stubbornness equal to her own staring back.

 _Cass will sneak me out,_ she thinks, a wild, frail hope. Something to cling to—a tiny ray of light in the churning darkness of this awful punishment. _She understands why I can’t stay— and she’s good at sneaking around the palace! She’ll help me._

“I would like your word, Rapunzel, that you’ll abide by these terms,” Dad says. He squeezes her shoulders gently. “I know they must seem harsh—unfair, even—but I promise you I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it necessary.”

_And when I promise something—_

The ghost of her own vow sighs through her head like something carried on a breeze. It was the truth then, and it’s the truth now, but–

_I never, ever break that promise._

_Ever._

Rapunzel swallows, hard.

“I… promise,” she breathes. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Sorry for hurting him—and sorry for this lie. Because _this_ – this isn’t a promise she _can_ keep. She’s been caged before.

She _won’t_ be caged again.

Not now.

Not _ever._


	20. Chapter 19: And Brought No Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is late x_x It's a... heavy chapter, and it was a struggle to get right. 
> 
> CW: Injuries.

###  **Chapter 19: And Brought No Day**

It’s dark.

Varian can hear the crashing surf, and smell the tang of salt mingled in the fog. The cold scrapes his lungs; frost crackles on his lips, in his nose. Snowflakes float in the air like stars suspended in a nebulous firmament.

Shivering, he stumbles on, and the small dark pebbles of the beach crunch like little bones beneath his feet. Firelight glints in the distance, dwindling and uncertain. The ocean froths around his feet as he walks, clinging to his ankles with cold, foaming fingers. He trips once, and beach grit chews into his palms.

Something chirps, plaintive, in the dark.

Soon the pebbles congeal into a solid shelf of rock, rough but slick with slurries of seawater and ice. He can see the bird now—for it _is_ a bird, chirping—accipitrine; snowy white, cloaked in feathers the color of smoke. A sea-hawk.

It watches Varian with one pale blue eye as he crouches to shuffle closer. The last gasp of firelight glistens in the misty haze between him and the bird, and he holds his breath when he lowers his gaze from the its imperious glare.

The hawk clutches a smoldering feather between its talons. It has the long, curling look of a rooster’s tail; the barbs reduced to fragile crisps of charcoal, the rachis gilded in dying cinders.

When the next wave crashes against the rocky shore, the hawk crouches, splaying its wings as if to shield the last embers from the ravenous tide; it keens in abject misery, and Varian eases closer. To– to _help,_ to comfort—

A shrill, whistling screech is the only warning he gets. The hawk lunges at his face—its obsidian talons carve the air and—

_“GAH—!”_

Varian jolts awake as the rake of talons over his jaw shreds the dream. His chair topples over, and he sprawls onto the apothecary floor with another yelp. For a moment he just lays there, wheezing on the cold flagstones, while Ruddiger paws at his face with an anxious chitter.

“Ju- j-just a dream,” he gasps. _Dizzy_. The last thing he remembers is sitting down to jot down a few notes for tomorrow; he must be more tired than he thought to have dozed off—

Groaning, he nudges Ruddiger out of the way and rolls onto his side. “I’m fine, buddy, just—”

Just his scar _aches._ Varian grimaces, rubbing at it, then blinks when his fingers encounter something warm and _slick_.

_Blood?_

_Am I- am I bleeding?!_

Alarmed, he scrambles to his feet and flops against the desk, tilting his hand to catch the light spilling through the narrowed shutters of his lantern—and chokes down a laugh.

It’s ink.

And—yes, _there’s_ his quill, crumpled on the desk in a smear of black ink. He must’ve fallen asleep with his face cradled in his writing hand, so it leaked all over his face.

“I’m fine,” he says again, wry. “C’mon, Ruddiger, I bet Dad won’t mind if you sp- sp-spend—” his jaw cracks around an enormous yawn “—tonight with me instead of the barn.”

He scoops the raccoon onto his shoulder and reaches down to snuff out the lantern, plunging the apothecary into the thick, velvety darkness that only comes when the moon is new. Humming under his breath, Varian lets himself out into the cold night. It’s quiet; the fresh snow squeaks underfoot as he locks up the apothecary, and his breath rises in steamy columns from his mouth.

Ruddiger chirps, nestling closer to Varian’s cheek, and, chuckling, Varian reaches up to scratch behind his ears. “Gettin’ cold, huh, buddy?”

Snow piles up high on either side of the trough connecting the apothecary to the house. Above, the black rocks slice the sky into thin ribbons of starlight and shadow; eerie. They’re silent—they’ve _been_ silent. After he dressed the last of Herrfeld’s injuries and shambled outside for a gasp of fresh air. The cold stripped away the feverish energy of the tavern, and he’d closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath and noticed the _quiet_ for the first time, the unsettling absence of the _keening_ sound he’s come to associate with the rocks.

It’s a breathless sort of silence. A waiting silence.

His hand is on the knob of the house’s front door when the back of his neck prickles with abrupt discomfort, and he freezes where he stands.

Indecision creeps in. He’s not sure how long he stands there, clutching the doorknob, one foot on the stoop, but it feels like hours.

Something doesn’t feel… right.

Like he’s forgotten something important.

After he and Dad saw Rapunzel and the others off, Varian had returned to the tavern to check on the wounded one last time. Mr. Portner had pressed a bowl of thick stew into his hands, and Varian had hunkered down at the counter to wolf it down while the injured villagers limped out home, or upstairs to the rooms Mr. Portner offered to those whose homes were destroyed. George Hafner had complained of pain in his chest, and Varian had brewed him a pot of willow tea to help.

Then he returned to the apothecary and spent the rest of the evening mixing up new disinfectants to replenish his supply.

_What am I missing?_

Varian shakes his head. “You know what, Ruddiger, it’s– it’s just been a long day. I’m just… hn, tired. There’s nothing…”

But he knows from experience that the discomfort curdling in his stomach won’t let him rest until he figures out where it came from, so Varian jams his hands into his trouser pockets and turns to walk briskly away from the house. He’ll slip into the tavern, make sure his supplies are all ready for bandage changes tomorrow morning, and _then—_

The tavern door creaks gently when he pushes it open and steps inside. Muggy warmth flows out of the interior and clings with strange persistence to his face; more like the heat after a summer storm than the embers smoldering in the hearth.

He tip-toes across the room. His things are as he left them; clean bandages rolled and neatly stacked in their box, and small jars of disinfectant salve lined up next to that. Varian thumps his fingers on the countertop.

_See, Varian? Everything’s–_

Ruddiger _snarls_. His claws gouge into Varian’s flesh as he launches himself down, and Varian smothers a shout of pain against his palm. “ _Ow!_ Ruddiger, what the—”

Still growling like a maddened dog, the raccoon charges up the stairs, and Varian curses under his breath and gives chase.

He’s on the second floor landing when the smell hits him.

Once, when Varian was seven, a farmhand fell from the roof of a barn and snapped his forearm. Mom had banned Varian from the apothecary while she set it, but she told him about it later—how the bone had broken clean through and the coarse dirt around the barn tore up the skin from poor Jacques’ wrist all the way to his elbow, how she’d cleaned the abrasions and splinted his arm before sending him on his way.

Jacques had stumbled back into the apothecary while Varian was helping Mom tidy up before dinner about two weeks later, flushed and garbled with fever. Mom told him to _leave,_ but she was too focused Jacques to notice when he tucked himself into the corner instead.

The _stench_ when she peeled the bandages off—

Varian panicked then, fled, and spent the remainder of the evening sobbing in Dad’s arms; his parents had fought about that, later. About mom letting him see gangrene at his age. The word burned itself into his memory and haunted his dreams for months. _Gangrene._

And the smell.

He knows the slimy, noxious stink of rot that wafts into his nostrils at the top of the stairs and it makes his stomach drop.

_That’s not. Possible._

“Ruddiger!” he whispers. The landing is darker than the room below, with nothing but the faint trickle of starlight through the window at the far end of the hall to scare the shadows away; he can’t see the raccoon, but he can hear his grumbling noises, and what sounds like the scratch of claws against wood. “Buddy—”

Hissing through his teeth, Varian retreats down the stairs. He knows Mr. Portner keeps spare candles in a box by the hearth, and after a bit of fumbling he finds one, lights it against one of the glowing embers, and hurries back upstairs. The candle flame bleeds heat into the palm he cups around it to keep it from guttering out in the draft stirred by his haste, and the shadows it casts seem to _writhe_ over the rough plaster walls.

“ _Ruddiger_ — _!_ ”

The raccoon scrabbles at one of the doors halfway down the tall—back arched, fur standing on end, the striped brush of his tail lashing back and forth. As Varian kneels beside him, Ruddiger shoves his nose through the crack under the door and growls again.

Varian leans closer, holding the candle clear of the door, and sniffs.

He can smell the rot leaking through the old wood. Mouth dry, he reaches up to test the door handle, expecting to find it locked—but it turns with a quiet _squeak,_ and the door swings open.

The candlelight spills over the threadbare rug on the other side, catching the frame of the bed and the rickety dresser set up against the far wall. Ruddiger grumbles, pinning his ears back as he slinks inside; Varian coughs against the stench, and rises to his feet.

George Hafner sprawls on the bed. He moans pitifully as the light hits his face. Sweat plasters his thick blond curls to his brow and gives his milky-white face a sickly sheen. His breathing sounds _wet._

_Oh, no– oh, no, no, no—_

The rocks hadn’t cut George deep, but the gash stretched from one shoulder and across his chest almost to the base of his ribs; and Varian had taken extra care when he cleaned and dressed it. It shouldn’t have—

 _He said, he_ said _it hurt, and all you did was make him tea._

“No, this–” Varian dodges around Ruddiger to get to the bed, biting his lip as he presses the back of his hand to George’s sweltering forehead. “This doesn’t make sense, _how_ —”

Any injury can get infected, but not like this—not this bad, this _fast_.

 _There’s no time to worry about how! It_ happened _. Now you have to fix it._

Varian fills his lungs, and bellows, “Mr. Portner! I need your help!”

## ❦

Cassandra studies the fine grain of her father’s desk, her gaze lingering on the dark, indifferent eye of a knot in the wood. Her father has been speaking for some time without saying much at all, and his office feels crowded with all the words.

“—agreed that it– that this… arrangement is– was… perhaps not as prudent as it first… seemed.” By her count this is her father’s sixth effort to sidle up to his point; which is that she’s being fired. Cassandra inclines her head just enough to indicate that she’s still listening to his meandering account of King Frederic’s panic, Queen Arianna’s distress, the inadequate note Rapunzel left behind, her myriad failures. She can’t tell whether he’s trying to soften the blow, or if he thinks she doesn’t _understand._

He sighs, a long, miserable rattle. “That is to say that your- your duty was to protect the Princess, Cassandra. Part of serving on the King’s Watch is making difficult choices for the good of the kingdom. That doesn’t just mean courage in the face of danger, which I… know you have in great supply. It… also means doing the right thing, even when it’s hard.”

_Doing what’s right, huh? Like when you kidnapped me, Dad?_

The question _burns_ on her tongue. Cassandra meets his stern frown with a sardonic lift of her eyebrows, and, wooden, mutters, “I understand.”

His expression tightens. “I’m not sure you _do,_ Cassandra. Sneaking the Princess out of Herzingen during the worst snowstorm this country has seen in centuries—”

“Better than letting her sneak out by herself.”

“You should have come to me. You should’ve informed the King of her plan and ended it before it began. That _badge_ gave you the authority _—and responsibility_ —to do so.”

“Dad—”

“The King has ordered me to remove you from the Watch,” her father says, grimacing. “Likewise, the Princess will have to find a new lady-in-waiting. You will be allowed to resume your duties on the housekeeping staff for the time being; however…” He sighs. “I’ve written to the Convent of the Sun in Kongsburg—”

“I am _not_ going to a convent.”

“You will if the rectors agree to take you,” he snaps. “You must learn discipline, Cassandra, and it’s _clear_ you won’t do that here, so—”

“Dad, I want Sholar Hároham’s letter.”

He lapses into shocked silence. She might as well have just leaned over and slapped him across the face; Cassandra clasps her hands behind her back, digging her fingernails into the bite from the Demanitus chamber. Her mouth goes very dry.

“What?”

She licks her lips. “The letter m- my father wrote eighteen years ago. His confession. It isn’t in the file. I want to see it.”

He stills like a mouse before a cat; his throat bobs as he swallows, hard, and something in the pit of her stomach hardens into a tight, spiky knot.

“Why?”

 _So there_ is _a letter._

“Something like that should have been included,” Cassandra says. “It’s protocol. Either it was there, until someone removed it, or… it was omitted on purpose. I deserve to know why my parents’ case file was mishandled.”

This is how suspects see him, she thinks. A man carved of granite, staring from the other side of a table. He doesn’t blink; neither does she.

“Dad—”

“No.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and when he opens her eyes he’s just her father again; stern, but human. “You are deflecting—”

_Unbelievable._

Scoffing, Cassandra unpins the badge from her chest and tosses it onto the desk. The clatter of metal on wood feels like vindication as much as defeat.

“Cassandra—”

“I’ve had a long day,” she says. One filled with questions, and prodding insinuations, and her father’s shame lying thick as the snow on her shoulders. “I’m going to bed.”

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the office, ignoring the protest her father barks after her; no point enduring _more_ scolding from the man who raised her and lied to her all her life. The heavy office door rattles in its frame as she slams it behind her, and her strides lengthen as she heads for her bedroom.

Her mind feels _bright_ and chilly as the winter itself; not the hot, inescapable inferno of anger as she’s always known it. Ice glazes her thoughts.

_No._

_No more._

Cold greets her when she enters her room and slams the bolt home. A glance at the water basin confirms that Johanna’s been in and out to change the water, but no one’s been tending to the dead hearth. Cassandra takes a deep breath, resting her forehead against the smooth wood of her door for a moment.

Owl warbles a reproach from his perch, and a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Hey, Owl. Miss me?”

He clacks his beak balefully as she sidles closer. Owl hasn’t given her real trouble in _years,_ but he’s been cooped up inside for a week. Nothing makes a hunting bird crankier than _that._

So she pitches her voice low and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Owl. Has Johanna been feeding you like I told her?”

There’s a tense moment when she reaches out and thinks for an instant that Owl might give her a slash across the knuckles for her trouble; then, trilling softly, he dips his head down to nibble on her fingers. She sighs. “Yeah, I know. I know.”

He gives another low, crooning trill as she threads his field jesses through the loops of his anklets and leaves them dangling, a promise to mollify him for the next few minutes while she peels herself out of her uniform and—

And.

The cold air shudders in and out of her lungs as she pulls on a fresh pair of trousers and a new shirt. Clean socks, her warmest boots. A quilted wool doublet with long sleeves. Her leather jerkin over that. Once she’s dressed, Cassandra scoops her knapsack up from the floor of her wardrobe and packs it hurriedly; extra clothes, her three best daggers, treats for Owl, all her savings.

She drops the knapsack on the bed next to her broadsword, and follows it with a cloak and gloves. Owl offers an impatient warble as she strides to her desk, but she ignores him in favor of rummaging through her drawers. Paper. Ink.

Two notes—then she’ll go.

Cassandra blots her quill as she sinks into her chair, pushes a sigh between her teeth, and writes:

_Dad,_

_I stole the Journal of Herz Der Sonne._

_I’m not sorry. Given the chance, I’d do it again._

_And I will_ _not_ _be going to the convent._

_—Cassandra._

The second message is… harder. Cassandra twirls the quill between her fingers for a long moment; the blankness of the paper trickles into her mind and smudges all the things she wanted to say.

 _Dear Rapunzel,_ she writes at length,

_I’m sorry._

_I’m leaving Herzingen, and I want you to know it has_ _nothing_ _to do with you. You are the best person I know, and the brightest light in this whole city, and if I could stay, for you, I would._

_I don’t know what they’re going to tell you, so here’s the truth: I’ve been dismissed from the Watch and removed from duty as your lady-in-waiting, by King Frederic’s orders. My father is making arrangements for me to go to a convent in Kongsburg; I don’t know if yours had anything to do with that._

_So I’m leaving tonight on my own terms. I won’t say where I’m going, but I promise I’ll be safe. You don’t need to worry._

_None of this is your fault._

_Take care of yourself, Raps._

_Love,_

_Cass._

And… then.

There’s nothing left but to buckle her sword into place, pull on her gloves and her cloak, and open the window. Owl trills and shuffles on his perch as a cold draft sighs into the room, but he stays put, his huge yellow eyes fixed on her.

She folds the letter for Rapunzel and tucks it into her jerkin; drops the knapsack through the window, and slips out herself. A quick scramble down; as soon as her boots hit the snow, she whistles for Owl to follow. He soars out and descends in a gliding spiral while she slings the knapsack over her shoulder, and lands on her upraised fist with a warble.

“Okay,” Cassandra whispers, tucking his jesses into place between her fingers. “We’re going, Owl. Just you and me.”

The storm might be ended, but the cold lingers and the evening chill bares its teeth against her cheeks; she’s alone, and there’s nobody to see when she slips through the postern and away.

More people are about in the city itself, but other than a few curious glances at Owl, none pay her any mind. She keeps to the side streets, ducking into alleys now and then to avoid the notice of the watchmen on patrol. Whetherher father’s men would _stop_ her, she doesn’t know—it isn’t as if she’s being confined to her quarters—but she’s not keen to find out.

Lance has been living in the Old Horn since his arrival in Herzingen. Anxiety writhes in her stomach as Cassandra enters the inn, but with the dinnertime rush beginning it’s easy to slip upstairs without attracting attention. It’s dim and quiet upstairs, and her footsteps fall softly on the thick carpet.

She finds Lance’s door and knocks, and waits only a second or two before the door creaks open and there’s Lance—frowning, puzzled.

“I’m leaving,” she says, before he can ask.

“Herzingen?”

“Mm. I–” If _any_ of her friends will understand why she needs to go, it’s Lance; but the explanation still lodges in her throat, and she has to swallow twice before she manages to spit it out. “Dad’s trying to send me to a convent. So– you know.”

“Oh. Oh, Cassandra, that’s really—”

“It’s fine,” she says, curt. Then she closes her eyes, breathing in. “I just wanted to say goodbye, and ask if– I mean, I wrote Rapunzel a letter.” She tugs it out of her jerkin; the folded paper crinkles in her grip. “I don’t know what they’ll tell her about—why I’m gone. If…”

“I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“Thanks.”

Lance offers her a smile as he takes the letter. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know,” she lies. “Just—away. Artois, then… I’ll figure it out.”

He nods. “Catching the last ferry out?”

“You got it.”

“Then you’d better get going.” He makes a fist, and bumps it gently against her shoulder. There’s sympathy in his eyes, but something else she can’t identify, too. “Good luck. Write when you can.”

“I… will.”

Lance pulls the door shut with one last smile, and some of the tension seeps out of her shoulders as Cassandra slips back outside. She has one more stop to make on her way to the docks, to bid her goodbye to Feldspar; then she’ll buy herself passage on the ferry to Artois, and… head south from there.

She has a favor to collect.

## ❦

_This isn’t my fault._

_This isn’t, it isn’t—_

But _blame_ twists in Varian’s stomach, in his chest, in the permanent lump in his throat; it’s ice-water in his veins and the inescapable stench of infection that coats his mouth.

The black rocks tore through Herrfeld three days ago, and he has existed since then in a sickly haze; George Hafner was the first of the injured to fall ill, but others followed swiftly and now there’s _dozens_ of them crammed into the apothecary on makeshift cots, delirious with fever. Varian hasn’t slept more than an hour at a stretch since the night he found George and nobody’s died yet, but—

When he wrote the list of supplies he’d need from Herzingen, he anticipated a handful of mild infections— _normal_ infections. But the sickness devouring his patients now is burning through his stock of medicines fast; the first shipment from the capital won’t arrive for another four or five days at the earliest, and even with careful rationing he’ll empty the apothecary’s cupboards in only two.

People are going to die.

 _It’s not my fault._ Varian shudders as he ladles out portions of broth. The smell of chicken mingles with the overpowering _rotten_ stench and makes his stomach turn. _It’s not. Dad said—_

But _he_ was supposed to keep everyone healthy while their injuries healed. His village depended on _him_ to keep them safe, and _he_ missed the bad batch of disinfectant or the tainted bandages or whatever it was that seeded this illness in the first place. _He_ failed, and all the praise and pride of his first day back in Herrfeld sours into bile in the pit of his stomach. 

_This isn’t my fault._

He doesn’t believe that. But it’s his job to fix it—he can’t wallow in guilt.

They sent word to Anbruch and some of the other villages in the area, pleading for help, but little came of it besides a few crates of supplies from the apothecary in Anbruch, left in the snow beyond the rocks. Enough to tide him over for one more day.

_Those cowards—_

But maybe that’s unfair—half of Herrfeld’s own have fled, too, spooked out of their homes by the oppressive shadows of the black rocks. Less mouths to feed, but fewer hands to help.

_It’s not my fault._

_It’s… not—_

“Son?”

Varian jumps, losing his grip on the ladle. It clatters against the counter, splashing broth everywhere, and Dad chuckles behind him. The apothecary brightens as Dad pushes the door open and steps inside, and a crisp, fresh breeze stirs the stagnant air.

“I’m sorry, Varian; didn’t mean to startle.”

“Dad! I–” He fumbles for the ladle and gives Dad a sheepish smile as broth drips onto his wrist. “What, uh, what do you need?”

“Came to help.” Dad steps up to the counter with a nod at the mugs Varian’s been filling, and Varian manages a weak smile. He sets the ladle down and grabs a mug, as does Dad, and for a while they work together without speaking.

Most of his patients lay dozing, restless, whimpering; he wipes sweat from their brows, murmuring words of hollow comfort as he rouses them, one by one, and coaxes the broth down their throats.

Even with Dad’s help it’s an ordeal. Folks have been in and out of the apothecary since the sickness began—some with willing hands to pound and chop and crush ingredients for new batches of medicine, others bearing donations of food or blankets, others who sit beside their loved ones with tears in their eyes, holding hands and stroking hair and whispering prayers for healing—but Varian hasn’t left the apothecary at all except to step outside for a few mouthfuls of clean air whenever the stench becomes too overwhelming.

He’s so _tired._

“I sent word to Adira,” Dad says abruptly. “When… all of this began.”

“You did?”

Dad settles the last, emptied mug down by the sink, sighing. “From what I understand she’s been traveling in southern Corona for the past few weeks, following one of her… leads.”

“But… I thought you hated her.”

“Hate—no.” Chuckling with little mirth, Dad braces himself on the counter, shakes his head. “We have our disagreements, but she is– was– my sister in arms. I couldn’t—” There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken history; Dad rubs the back of his hand, looking rueful. “She made her sword from a shard of those rocks,” he says. “Meaning she can cut through them. We need to open a reliable passage through this… cage, and—” his lips twitch “—I’m not sure your plan to spray particles of silver at it is… wise.”

“Well, not one of my best ideas, no,” Varian admits. Cutting an opening sounds a lot safer. “How soon can she get here?”

“A week?” Dad shrugs. “Maybe more. Adira—always does things in her own time. In the meantime, we just have to keep people calm and do… whatever we can for the sick.”

“I’m trying—”

“Son.”

Varian falters into silence as Dad grips his shoulders. He hasn’t seen that look in Dad’s eye since summer—it’s warm and stern and gentle and it only appears when Dad’s about to tell him off for doing something _dangerous_. “I want you to come into the house for dinner tonight, Varian.”

“Dad—”

“And sleep in your _bed._ You need to rest.”

“These people need me, Dad, I’m the only one who—”

“I will sit up with them myself, if that’s what it takes.” Dad’s tone brooks no argument, and when Varian bows his head, he’s rewarded with a firm squeeze. “I’ll wake you if there’s an emergency. But you need— _your_ health is important, too, Varian.”

“…I– understand. Dad.”

“Good.” Dad pats his shoulder, then pushes away from the counter and turns to go. “Dinner’s at sundown. I’ll make a cobbler.”

“Yeah. Okay, Dad.”

That gives him about—six hours to wash the mugs, clean and redress everyone’s injuries, tidy the apothecary, change blankets and launder the dirtied ones, boil and bottle up one last batch of medicine from his dwindling supply of ingredients, write Dad out a list of tasks and things to watch out for during the night, and– and that isn’t _enough,_ and Varian’s just turning away from the sink to ask Dad to round up some volunteers to handle the laundry and wash the dishes when Dad stumbles.

“…Dad?”

“I’m f—” He puts out a hand to steady himself against the counter, sagging; a dead pallor washes into his face, and cold dread reaches up to clutch Varian in its fist.

“ _Dad—?_ ”

A strangled cry rips itself out of Varian’s throat as Dad collapses; he springs forward, heart hammering, shouting, “Dad! _Dad!_ No, no, no—”

Dad twitches, groaning, clutching at his arm; and Varian snatches one of the knives he uses to chop up herbs. Pain jolts through his knees as he hits the floor next to Dad—everything a blur as he digs into the seam of Dad’s sleeve with the knife and _rips_ —

He pushes the sleeve down. The bandage underneath, hot to the touch—Varian tugs out the clip holding it in place and unravels it frantically while Dad stammers out something he can’t hear over the pounding of blood in his ears. The other villagers told him it took some of the injured like this, _sudden,_ but…

The dressing comes away sticky with yellow pus.

_No._

What had been a clean slice of crimson this morning is now a swollen mess, the skin tinged green along the edges of the cut and weeping pus—it looks like it’s been festering untreated for for _days_.

 _“No—!_ ”

Dad’s fingers close around his wrist. “V- Varian— I–”

“Dad, Dad– hold on, Dad, I— I can fix this—”

He tugs his arm free of Dad’s flagging grip and dives for the sink. _Wash hands, clean and disinfect the wound, medicine to fight the infection from the inside, not Dad,_ please _not Dad, I can’t lose Dad too—_

When he turns around again, Dad is sitting up again, slumped against the counter and breathing hard; his gloves lay discarded in his lap.

The sight of Dad’s tattoo stops him dead.

It’s infected, too.

Inflammation distorts the thin symbol and a thick, cloudy glaze of pus oozes over the back of Dad’s hand; the jar of disinfectant slips through Varian’s fingers as the pieces click into place.

_It wasn’t bad ointment or dirty bandages._

Adira has that same symbol tattooed on the back of _her_ hand, too, and it’s carved into the face of the talisman she used to meditate sometimes. When he asked about it, she changed the subject, but he knows it has _something_ to do with the moonstone.

And the only way for _Dad’s_ to be infected now is if—

_It came from the rocks._

Not a natural infection. _Magic,_ and his medicines can’t cure the sickness any more than his acids could harm the rocks.

“S-s-son—” Dad reaches for him, and Varian stumbles forward to grip his hand. The tattoo feels like a live coal beneath his palm. “M-my— in… my room, there’s—a chest—”

Fingers trembling, Dad tugs on the cord that’s hung around his neck every day for as long as Varian can remember, sliding it out from beneath his shirt. A key dangles from the end of it; he pulls it over his head and presses it into Varian’s hand.

“—open it. You n-need to… know.”

“No,” Varian whispers. “ _No,_ Dad, you don’t—don’t you worry. I’m– I’m going to figure this out, and you’ll get better, and _then_ we’ll—we can talk.”

“ _Varian_ —”

He bolts. Out the apothecary and into the snow, skidding through his turn toward the house. Fear and anger war in his chest, two howling tides that sharpen his mind down to a narrow, focused point.

_Magic._

_So it demands a magical solution. Fire with fire._

He wasted months puzzling over the chemical structure of the rocks, dismissing Adira’s talk of magic as superstitious mysticism—always certain that answers lay just out of reach and he could find them if he just found the right sequence of steps, the right theory, the right catalyst—but Varian counts his time in days now, not months, and _lives_ are at stake.

_BANG._

The door slams against the wall as Varian charges into the house. He leaves it hanging open and sprints down into his lab where the massive black rock that spitted the house pierces through the cellar floor.

Faint blue lights swim in the base of the rock like languid arcs of lightning, following the fractal veins beneath the glossy surface. The rock is ice-cold, and the instant Varian presses his palms against it, the _hum_ pours into his bones. He whimpers, sinking to his knees.

It _hurts._

“You did this,” he chokes out, gritting his teeth. “Y-you called Rapunzel here, you destroyed my village, you’re making people sick— _you–_ please, _please,_ help me fix it.”

Nothing. _Nothing._ The lights skitter indifferently under his hands, tracing patterns that make his eyes itch; Varian pounds a fist against the rock, screaming in frustration. “ _Please!_ ”

_I don’t know what else to do._

He huddles down, crouching with his forehead against the rock. Dad’s shock-white face swims in his mind’s eye, and he can still _smell_ the decay, the stink of infection clinging to him like a shroud. Hot tears well up in his eyes, and he whispers, “Please. Please, everyone—”

_They’re all counting on me._

The stone rumbles. Varian jerks away, clapping one hand over his scar as a blistering _sting_ shoots through it.

Shadows pour out of the rock, and darkness sweeps him away.

## ❦

_The earth spins and the darkness blooms and the light bleeds; warmth hemorrhages from the carcass of the old and tar drips—_

_(three birds roost together in the boughs of a great tree; pale pink blossoms, the honeysuckle smell of the gentle spring)_

_—burning, a black fire rages where the sun cannot reach; but the moon, the moon, the moon—_

_(two birds; the summer draped in monstrous heat. a shimmering mirage)_

_—like water; ice tumbling in a river of moonlight—_

_(it is so lonely)_

_—in the dark._

## ❦

Varian’s eyes snap open.

_I know what to do._

He’s sprawled on the cold stone floor at the base of the rock. The humming has lapsed into silence again, and the flickering blue lights have faded, leaving nothing but the trickle of sunlight down the stairs to light the cellar. Shivering, Varian pushes himself onto his knees and staggers upright.

The counter catches him. His equipment rattles—spots swim in his eyes, hazy kaleidoscopic fragments of color and shadow and light—it makes his head throb, but he _knows—_

Solution of lunar caustic, heated to a boil—mix in a spoonful of charcoal and pinch of potash—

Time slips away while he mixes, chops, stirs; his hands never stop moving, never slide into the pondering stillness he’s accustomed to when he’s working out a new formula. While the liquid distills in his alembic he dashes back to the apothecary to rifle through his store of herbs—alder leaves and mugwort flowers, _perfect_ —and by the time he gets back, the liquid has pooled in the alembic’s receiving chamber, transformed from dingy blue to a clear green.

He dumps it into a new beaker. Shreds the alder leaves and sprinkles them in, then follows them with mugwort petals.

The liquid shimmers. Leaves and petals both dissolve with a faint hissing sound; the solution steams, bubbling, and thickens until it’s the color and consistency of raw honey.

_Done._

Varian pushes his hair out of his eyes as he staggers back up the stairs. He feels—odd– no, it’s just _fatigue,_ catching up with him at last. Exhaustion crawls under his skin, dragging against his footsteps and sharpening the glare of late-afternoon sunlight off the snow outside.

He returns to the apothecary with a quiet ringing fills his ears. Dad is—where Varian left him, slumped by the counter, breathing shallow. He mumbles something when Varian goes to him, and his eyes flicker behind closed eyelids.

“Come on, Dad, come on—”

“S-son…”

It takes a few minutes, but he gets Dad on his feet, and together they plod back to the house. Down to the cellar. Varian props Dad against the black rock, trying to ignore how ghastly he looks in the murky gloom.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Dad,” he whispers. “Just- just wait here.”

Back and forth, back and forth. Stumbling, shambling, one by one, he rouses his patients and brings them to the lab. Doubts try to wriggle in, but he shunts them aside. The implacable _certainty_ the—dream?—inspired feels brittle now, eroded away by the logical part of his mind that keeps whispering that he _doesn’t know_ what this will do to them, but it– it’s better than doing _nothing,_ better than watching them die, better than—

Once all twenty-six of them are crowded around the base of the rock, Varian picks up the beaker. Aromatic steam curls off the surface of the solution, warding away the stench of infection, and the liquid shines with a weird, opalescent light as he steps up to the rock and upends the beaker against its glossy flank.

Then he backs away, holding his breath.

He expects—nothing. For the strange liquid to drip down the side of the rock and puddle on the floor without causing any reaction, and for a moment he feels intensely, pitifully stupid.

 _Oh, sure, mix a bunch of random stuff together because a_ magic dream _told you to, that’s a great way to—_

Pale orange light kindles deep within the rock, and his solution bubbles gently and begins to- to _unfold,_ or melt or, or— streams of amber light snake through the rock, swirling, dripping, tracing fluid spirals beneath the gloss— the solution flows like honey, more and more and _more_ as if the light becomes liquid when it pours out of the rocks; and Varian watches, frozen in horrified fascination, as it begins to coagulate– hardening into a smooth, crystalline, translucent material—

“N- _no_ —” His shock snaps, and Varian stumbles, panic coiling in his chest. “Oh, no, no– _no!_ ”

All he can see is the amber creeping down Dad’s chest, pinning him to the rock; he lunges forward blinded by fear— something hits him _hard_ in the chest— he falls—

_Dad–_

Dad _kicked_ him.

“St- stay— back,” Dad wheezes. When Varian looks up, Dad has slumped back in the grip of the amber; and his other patients, already half-devoured by the spreading crystals—some lying still, others struggling feebly—all of them _trapped._

“Dad,” Varian whispers.

_It’s too late._

“Varian—” Tendrils of amber curl around Dad’s throat, but he lifts his chin to force out the words. “—I’m– s-sorry.”

“No, Dad, I–”

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry—_

The apologies fracture into wracking sobs. Varian stays put, huddled on the floor where he fell, while tears stream down his face and the amber grows, and grows, and grows.

_What have I done?_


	21. Chapter 20: Alkahest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood. Just a bit.
> 
> Also big big big shoutout to Murph / [ancientriverbed](https://ancientriverbed.tumblr.com) / [used_muse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/used_muse) who wrote (!!) this [fantastic song](https://soundcloud.com/murphytaylorsmith/zitis-prayer) inspired by this fic last week 8] Give it a listen, it's good!

###  **Chapter 20: Alkahest**

How long he spends huddled on the cellar floor, Varian can’t say. It’s long enough for the scintillant growth of the amber to fade into gelatinous shadow; blackness dripping back into the rock like clouds obscuring the face of the moon. The lab darkens,and the cold light of the winter afternoon fades into grey dusk as it filters through the open door at the top of the stairs.

Twenty-six people, trapped in amber.

When he struggles up off the floor at last and shuffles forward to press his hands against it, he’s dully unsurprised to find it ice-cold beneath his fingertips. A tacky film clings to the surface, which gives him a dull flicker of hope– if it’s softer than the black rocks—but.

Even if he could excavate the- the bodies, they’d still—they’re not breathing, inside the amber. None of them move.

Varian slumps. He half wishes it would grow—engulf him along with the others, a fair repayment for his stupidity. But all is silence, and cold.

After a few minutes the thought that he will have to explain what happened—what he _did_ —to the rest of the village crawls sluggishly out of the ice in the back of his mind, and dread brings him to his knees. He’s never– he has a complicated reputation in Herrfeld. Being Quirin’s son afforded him a certain indulgence; even as his more volatile experiments drew distrust, exasperation, even fear. But his work in the apothecary made him valuable. People trusted him to keep them healthy, just as they’d trusted Mom before him.

 _Mom._ What would she think of him now? Acting so reckless with the lives of people who were counting on him—on _Dad_ —

Gasping, Varian recoils. The amber looms, a suffocating ooze congealing in his mind and suddenly he can’t get out of the cellar fast enough. He scrambles up the stairs, trips over the landing and comes down hard on his hands and knees; a creaking sob drags itself free of his frozen lungs. He digs his fingers into the floorboards, shuddering. _Twenty-six people._

And he has nobody but himself to blame.

The bodies float in his mind’s eye; the amber imprinted behind his eyelids. Varian whimpers, and pushes himself to his feet. He’s halfway to Dad’s room when the soft chittering sounds behind him finally catch his notice enough for him to dredge up the willpower to turn and scoop Ruddiger into his arms.

“Hey, h-hey, buddy,” he whispers, voice raw. “I—”

Ruddiger nudges his nose into Varian’s chin, and Varian buries his face in the raccoon’s fur, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I really, really messed up, Ruddiger,” he mumbles.

 _No._ Blowing up a few beakers and singeing his eyebrows off is _messing up._ Mixing up the wrong ingredients and having to air out the house because of poisonous fumes is _messing up._

He made a colossal error in judgment that he can’t ever fix and no one, _no one_ will ever forgive him. Nor should they.

Even Ruddiger’s weight on his shoulder doesn’t lend him any comfort as he finishes his stumble into Dad’s room. The key Dad gave him feels heavier than it should when he pulls it out of his pocket; heavy with grief and guilt and fear. His hands shake.

_What am I doing?_

Finding Dad’s chest won’t fix— but it’s easier, it’s easier than going outside, than confessing what he’s done. Varian stands in the doorway for a moment, numb, clutching the key, looking around.

Dad never went in for decoration. A small painting of their family hangs on the wall; Mom beaming, Dad cradling a tiny baby in his arms. Time faded the paints into murky shadows of themselves, rendering Mom’s red hair down to dingy auburn and giving his own rosy face a jaundiced tinge.

Besides the painting, the barren walls are grey and empty; and there’s a bed, a washbasin, the trunk where Dad keeps his clothes—a threadbare brown rug spread over the floor. A chair, positioned to afford a view of both the painting and the austere white landscape outside the singular window.

His chest feels very tight.

“Dad said— D-dad—”

_Don’t._

When he blinks, he sees the amber swallowing Dad’s face; the way Dad shut his eyes, grimacing discomfort in the last second before it happened.

Shuddering, Varian throws himself into searching for the chest. A distraction, a– a faint, faint hope, that maybe, maybe, _maybe_ he’ll find something useful.

It’s under the bed. Not a chest so much as a lockbox; small, grey, made of some dull metal he doesn’t think is steel. Dust sheds from its tarnished lid as Varian hauls it from its hiding place, tickling the inside of his nose.

He slots the key into the lock. A perfect fit. The box doesn’t look like it’s been touched in years, but when he turns the key, there’s a quiet _click_ and the lid pops open with a whisper of oiled hinges.

Inside are journals. Six of them, each bound in plain grey leather. Varian leafs through the first and finds it written in a strange, thorny script he’s never seen before; but sketches scatter the pages, and he lingers over those. Mountains and trees and rivers; caravans traveling along roads that wind through vague suggestions of rolling plains, open meadows. Black rocks. A full page taken up by a campsite, people milling around tents and open fires.

Then—Adira, her face done in hard lines that make her look fiercer, angrier than Varian has ever seen her. Beside her is another man, unfamiliar; his face thin and his eyes narrowed in furious loathing. Dark, messy hair falls into his face.

“Did… did Dad draw these?”

If Dad had any artistic talent that’s news to Varian. But—he chews his lip, shooing Ruddiger away when the raccoon tries to nibble at the corner of the journal—he can’t imagine who else would—

 _There are,_ Varian remembers, his heart sinking, _a lot of things Dad never bothered to tell me._ He knew that. Even before he met Adira, even before then he _knew_ that Dad had built walls high and thick around the mysteries of his past.

_But this? Why hide something like—_

And now any chance for Dad to share is gone. Unless by some miracle he can pull his father and the other villagers out of the amber unharmed…

 _No._ His breath hitches as he clutches the journal to his chest, tears boiling up in his eyes. _No falling apart, Varian. You need to— to—_

Figure out. How to explain any of this.

_I can’t._

Sniffling, he stacks the journals next to the box, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, and pokes through the remaining contents of the box. Something like hope still lingers—a fantasy.

He finds a shard of pale blue stone, with the symbol of the thrice-pierced circle etched into one side. A tarnished silver ring with an opal setting, and intricate spirals and tiny stars engraved along the sides. Dust, and dust, and dust.

And a scroll, so small and so thick with dust that he only finds it by chance. The delicate parchment unfurls with a sigh when his fingers brush against it, and he stills.

It’s only a fragment. An exquisite illustration of a hawk dominates the torn page. It perches on the inner curve of a crescent moon, wings flared, proud and imperious. Delicate lines of black ink define its feathers in meticulous detail; the page behind it swarms with ornate swirling patterns, abstract suggestions of water, or wind, or flame.

Beneath that are several lines of the same unfamiliar script that fills Dad’s journals, though most of it is cut off by the ragged edge. Varian traces his fingertips over the bladed curve of the moon, pierced by a longing like talons in his heart. His father knew this language— perhaps the language of Aphelion, the language Dad spoke and wrote and _lived_ and chose not to pass on to his son.

_Why not?_

Maybe it had been too painful. The strain Dad wore while he shared the tale of his destroyed homeland burns in Varian’s memory, an unimaginable grief, but—

Regret coils in his chest; a frigid serpent, fangs bared, and when it strikes Varian feels the cold lash and twist and refashion itself into _anger,_ because Dad never listened and Dad never talked and Varian had accepted that even as he craved more and _this whole time_ there were answers at his fingertips if only Dad had deigned to share instead of locking them away and leaving Varian lost and floundering in the darkness—except he can’t be angry at Dad because Dad is– Dad is gone.

He sags, letting the scroll slip through his fingers. It drifts onto the stack of journals, curling gently into itself again.

 _You need to know._ A bitter gasp of a laugh bubbles out with the next trickle of his tears. Dad… trusted him to figure this out. Somehow.

“I will,” he mumbles, swiping his sleeve across his eyes. Ruddiger noses at his other hand, and purrs contentedly when Varian rubs him behind the ears. “I’ll figure this out. I- I’ll…”

_Ask Adira._

He bites his lip. She had been… more forthcoming, than Dad, but she still spoke of her past in only the vaguest terms, and she had a slippery way with questions. In their months of collaboration, Varian gleaned that both she and the rocks came from a place called Aphelion, but little else.

In hindsight, he wonders whether she hadn’t just been humoring him. A few crumbs of information to keep him interested, and a semblance of adult supervision.

_No more._

The air feels cold in his lungs as he fills them with resolve. If Dad’s papers are written in Aphelionese, Adira can help him translate them. She _will_ help him translate them.

Nodding to himself, Varian clears the dust out of the lockbox, then carefully packs everything again. He locks it, hangs the key around his neck, and tucks the box under his arm. He’ll keep it in his room until Adira gets here, and then—

“Varian?”

He jolts. That’s Mr. Duval’s voice, muffled; coming from the front of the house, by the sound of it.

“…Quirin? Hello?”

“Mr- Mr. Duval!” Heart hammering against his ribs, Varian hurries to greet him. He hasn’t– he’s not ready to explain the horror in the cellar yet— what can he _say?_

He finds Mr. Duval in the entryway. Snow scatters the floor, having blown in through the door Varian left hanging ajar; but the chill racing down Varian’s spine has nothing to do with the cold.

“H-hi, Mr. Duval—uh, what- hn, what brings you here?”

Mr. Duval frowns at him. “I brought dinner for your patients and found the apothecary empty, and your house dark.”

“I– w-well, yes, um. That. There’s a logical explanation—”

“Did something happen? Where’s your father?”

“Mr. Duval—”

“Where are your _patients?”_

Varian opens his mouth, and no sound comes out but a pathetic creak. The hard edges of Dad’s lockbox dig into his fingers. He shrinks; the concern in Mr. Duval’s eyes crumbles into suspicion.

“I- I…” There’s nothing he can say. Nothing to fix it. Nothing to soften the blow. Varian licks his lips, shoulders slumping, and whispers, “They’re in the cellar.”

Fear flashes across Mr. Duval’s face. Varian stumbles out of his way as the man rushes past him, and while Mr. Duval descends the steps into the darkness of the cellar, he stares at the toes of his boots. The feathery border of the snow drifting into the house. He waits.

Mr. Duval doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry out. After a few minutes he emerges, white-faced, from the cellar. His eyes are dark and flat and when he looks at Varian there is nothing in them but blasted, glassy horror.

“What have you _done,_ boy?”

“It—” Unsettled, Varian steps back; the evening breeze ghosts icily against his neck. “It was an accident–”

“An _accident?_ ” Anger kindles behind the horror, and Varian cringes. “Dragging twenty-six people down there to- to do _that_ , an accident?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Mr. Duval lunges forward and grabs him by the collar. “Didn’t _mean to?!_ You lined them up and _murdered—_ agh!”

He drops Varian, who falls hard against the doorjamb. Furious snarls swirl in his ears—spots bloom and burst in his eyes—and there’s Ruddiger; a storm of teeth and claws and bristling grey fur shredding Mr. Duval’s leg to ribbons.

“Nn– _Ruddiger,_ no!”

Blood spatters the floor. Mr. Duval kicks Ruddiger off, and the raccoon tumbles into the snow with a quiet _poff_ and an enraged squeal, and Varian screams. Thoughts of explanations evaporate as his whole mind sharpens around _not Ruddiger too_.

He darts outside, scoops Ruddiger under his arm, and barrels away from the house. The raccoon thrashes in his grip, but Varian has him fast and panic blurs away the sting when Ruddiger’s claws rip into his side. A panting struggle up the steep slump of snow at the end of the trench—and then the white fields open before him, the lattice of black rocks—

Mr. Duval shouts after him, but Varian doesn’t look back.

## ❦

The inner recesses of the Sunlit Temple share none of the gilded splendor of their public counterparts, though the architects of old made some effort to suffuse even these plainer corners with light by means of an abundance of windows that, in wintertime, flood the ancient corridors with an unpleasant, drafty chill. Gilbert stamps his feet rather harder than is necessary as he marches deeper into the temples, to keep the blood moving.

He finds Ludolf in the small private library where the rectors have been interrogating Frederic’s… black rock issue. A fire burns in the hearth with cheerful if ineffective aplomb; Ludolf huddles before it, wrapped in several blankets, with one of the more crumbling tomes of his faith open in his lap. He does not look up as Gilbert strides into the room, nor when Gilbert pulls the door shut behind him, but he does say, “Good evening, Gilbert. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Gilbert smiles, with little pleasure. “You’ve not heard.”

This does snare his brother’s attention. A minute frown creases Ludolf’s brow as he marks his place in the book and sets it aside, with a reverence that Gilbert cannot help but think exaggerated. “Heard what?”

There is another seat by the fire, a worn and deflated armchair that has, like most of the furniture in the rectors’ private quarters, seen better days. Gilbert sinks into it, sighing. “Sir Peter’s ward fled Herzingen last night,” he says, with—not with relish, but the grim satisfaction of a hunch confirmed. He crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands over his knee. “She left behind a note confessing her involvement in the conspiracy to steal the Journal.”

Stunned silence glazes the low crackle of the fire while Ludolf digests this information. Gilbert watches with interest; he knows his brother had some small fondness for the girl. All very noble, for the Commander to take a Saporian orphan and raise her up in better circumstances—noble in that lofty dreaming way that so appeals to Ludolf. He had approved of her adoption with his whole heart.

“Oh,” Ludolf says at length. His jaw works. “I– you are serious?”

“Have you ever known me to joke on such serious matters?”

“I have seldom known you to joke at all,” Ludolf murmurs. He lifts his fingers to his temples and rubs, soothing little circles. “She always struck me as such a pleasant young woman. Reasonable. I—would never have guessed.”

Gilbert considers and discards the notion of pointing out that he _had,_ and had made his suspicions clear long before. He did not come today to draw his brother into debate.

“Nevertheless,” he says, quietly, “it is the truth. What do you suppose will happen now?”

Ludolf gives him a sharp glance, as if to say he sees the tracks Gilbert means to lay; but he closes his eyes and answers even so. “There will be a thorough examination, I imagine. Sir Peter may need to recuse himself from the Separatist investigation altogether—leaving it in your hands entirely. You must be so pleased.”

“Cynicism doesn’t suit you,” Gilbert remarks. “I’m dismayed—perhaps not surprised, but by no means pleased. I have kept a close eye on the girl over the years, Ludolf. Her knowledge of the King’s Watch is encyclopedic. She can furnish the Separatists with detailed schedules and maps of every patrol, every post; and evidently she also knows the labyrinth well enough to guide our niece in and out of the city without use of a map. I have just come from the dungeons, where some of the prisoners I questioned intimated that, only a few minutes before the Separatist witch escaped, a young woman in a cloak slipped into the dungeons and spoke to her briefly in Saporian.”

“They said nothing of the sort when—”

“When Sir Peter questioned them the following morning.”

Ludolf scoffs. “You cannot possibly believe that Sir Peter had any part in—”

“Of course not. The Commander’s loyalty is beyond reproach; but you know I have long said that his… methods of interrogation do little to motivate compliance. I asked… firmly, and they answered.”

He pauses there, allowing the discussion to lapse into Ludolf’s brooding contemplation.

“I see,” Ludolf murmurs at length.

“We must at the least consider the possibility, then, that Cassandra aided in the murder of Sergeant Connell, and the Separatist witch’s subsequent escape from the dungeons. Certainly we can no longer trust the girl’s account of what happened at Janus Point.” Gilbert sighs, diverting his gaze the flames dancing in the hearth. Even he had been taken in, in the end; persuaded by the girl’s foolish, reckless, brave decision to rescue his niece from peril. An elaborate deception. “And we must accept that the Watch has been compromised and proceed accordingly.”

“Change the patrol schedules,” Ludolf says. “Seal the tunnels.”

“For a start.”

He can feel Ludolf’s gaze on him, thoughtful. Gilbert tips his head in acknowledgement, though he does not turn from his contemplation of the fire.

“Why are you here, brother?” Ludolf asks.

A thin smile tugs at his lips. Always so direct. “I came to ask your help,” he says. “Frederic has… many things weighing on his mind; the reports of destruction in the Anbruch area clamor for his attention, and meanwhile the Saporians have gone to ground. Whatever they sought to accomplish at Janus Point, I do not believe they succeeded—whether Cassandra aided them or not. My task force has orchestrated a number of arrests in Alcorsīa and Artois. The theft of the Journal is, by now, old news.”

“Make your point.”

“I fear that Frederic will miss—or ignore—the gravity of Cassandra’s betrayal. He is fond of Sir Peter, who is of course devastated; and he is preoccupied with other, louder problems at present. Lord Stefan is a reliable voice for good sense in the Saporian matter, but he is attending to his own matters in Kongburg presently; and Frederic does not like him much to begin with. I hoped you might join me in advising Frederic to take this… seriously.”

“I will not advocate for a further crackdown,” Ludolf says flatly. “The measures already in place go too far as it is—”

“Then offer your own solutions!” Gilbert snaps. “Only press Frederic to face reality—to _act,_ before the Separatists force him to react.”

Ludolf mulls this over, and Gilbert holds his breath. One way or another, he means to protect his kingdom—but it will be easier if his brother can grant him even this token gesture of support. The fire crackles; a cold draft tickles the back of his neck. He does not move.

At last, Ludolf murmurs, “Very well.”

Gilbert smiles.

## ❦

Varian trudges through the petrified forest, weary and aimless. His flight from Herrfeld is a confused blur; somehow he had made across the Nathair and into—well. Here.

Where the trees grow bladed and black, and thickets of stone lacerate the snow. He hugs Dad’s lockbox to his chest with both arms, ignoring the dull sting of the gouges Ruddiger’s panicked squirming left in his arms, his side.

_Murderer._

He blinks—amber hulking in the dark. Blinks—dreadful fury twisting Mr. Duval’s face. Blinks again—blood on the snow, Ruddiger’s teeth in Mr. Duval’s leg. _Blinks—_

Ruddiger trundles beside him now, calm again. The kick he received from Mr. Duval doesn’t seem to have harmed him; nor had Varian’s rough handling during his reckless sprint away from the village.

 _I shouldn’t have wasted time,_ Varian thinks miserably. _I should’ve gone out right away and told– maybe then…_

_Maybe then what?_

Confess himself a murderer; let himself be marched to Anbruch and arrested—leave Dad’s things behind—lose even the barest chance of fixing… what he’s done.

How is that _better?_

_It might be warmer._

The despair infiltrating his thoughts bares its fangs. Varian grips the lockbox tighter, hunching as a sob strangles him. He can feel the metal leeching heat out of his body and it’s already so _cold._ Frost crusts his cheeks wherever his tears dripped free. His muscles ache from shivering.

Ruddiger crawls up his leg and twines around his shoulders, making soft, grumbling, worried noises, and Varian leans his head against the raccoon’s warm side.

“What are we gonna do, buddy? I don’t– I d-don’t know what to _do._ ”

He’s so tired. Teeth chattering, he shuffles on.

Night rushes in. The last dregs of the gloaming settle into shadows, and the icy keening of the rocks sharpens with it. The moon is no more than a sliver on the horizon, its faint glow inadequate to light his way. Varian stumbles, and stumbles, and—

He doesn’t remember making the decision to lie down.

But it’s comfortable. Snowflakes feather against his eyelashes; he slips inch by inch into a state of calm, blank tranquility. He shouldn’t— he knows– he needs to move, needs to fight the soft fog stealing into his thoughts, but he can’t… remember why. The snow wraps him in a surprising, gentle warmth, and it’s easier to relax than to struggle to his feet again. And where would he go, anyway?

He’s lost, and it’s dark, and he’s tired.

Ruddiger paws at his hair, chittering, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He shuts his eyes.

The line between dreams and waking softens into a pleasant haze; a misty sensation of movement and light, heat and cold. Dim memories of wandering through snow and dark, fragrant trees; the scent of pine in winter. Shards of the morose sky, and stars, and gnarled roots and little flowers in frosted mantles. Ruddiger, always. Fur and the warm prickle of claws against his neck.

When he comes to, he is swaddled in scratchy blankets before a blazing hearth. Something bubbles in a cauldron nestled in the flames. The pungent smell of the wool tickles his nose; he gazes at the low wooden beams of the ceiling for a moment, befuddled, and wonders if this is just a cozy hallucination conjured up by his freezing brain in the last moments before death claims him—but it feels too mundane.

Too real.

A log slips in the hearth, and the flames _pop,_ spitting up sparks into the chimney. Heat smothers his face, baking through the layers of wool; his hair feels damp from melting snow, and his skin—

It occurs to him then that he’s mostly naked under the blankets, and on the heels of that realization comes the uncomfortable awareness that he isn’t alone. A garbled, embarrassed mumble trips off his tongue as he rolls his head around to gawk at his, he assumes, rescuer.

She’s a small woman. Only a little taller than he would be, he thinks, if they were both on their feet. A mess of curls the color of dirty water piles on the top of her hair in a loose knot. Freckles dust her plump, rosy cheeks, and her bright green eyes shine with a warmth that reminds him of Rapunzel and puts him a little more at ease despite— everything happening right now.

Seeing him awake, she gives him a pleasant smile and points. “Your things are right there.”

He follows the line of his finger to his clothes, hung on a rack before the hearth. Dad’s lockbox sits next to them, safe. He blinks.

“Should be about dry by now, dear,” the woman says. “I’ll step outside for a moment, shall I? So you can dress. Then we’ll talk.”

Dress. _Right._ The more awake he gets, the less unsettled he feels. Every winter, a handful of folks fall victim to the cold—often travelers unprepared for the fierce blizzards of the darkest months. When they’re rescued, the first thing anyone does is strip off their wet things and wrap them up in blankets to warm up by a fire.

It’s just disorienting when it happens to _him._

“Al- alright.”

With another kind smile, the woman sets aside the little book she was reading before he awoke and moves to the door, where she sweeps a heavy, fur-lined cloak around her shoulders and lets herself out into the night.

The door bangs shut behind her. Varian shimmies out of his cocoon of blankets and dresses in a hurry; his clothes are a touch damp, still, but thoroughly warm from the fire.

“I’m, uh– ready?” he calls softly, once he’s finished.

No answer.

Feeling awkward, he wraps one of the blankets around his shoulders, sits with his back to the hearth, and peers curiously around the cottage.

Like its inhabitant, it’s small. There’s a narrow bed pushed against the window to his left, with an old wooden trunk at the front of it; at the other end of the room there’s a little table with two stools tucked underneath it, and a sideboard bearing a vase of wilted flowers next to a spindly washstand.

Shelves line every inch of the walls, groaning under the weight of books and—more books, with a few tins of tea and a dusty bottle of wine squeezed in between the tomes. A knotted rug covers most of the floor. The room smells like lanolin and wood smoke and… a faint whiff of something acrid; chemical. _Familiar._

Before he can put a name to it, the door swings open, and his rescuer blows back into the cottage on a gust of snowy wind, her arms laden with firewood.

“You’re looking lively,” she says brightly, kicking the door shut behind her and stomping snow off her big leather boots. “The name’s Arieta Zashin, dear; what’s yours?”

“I-I’m Varian. You, uh… thank you for saving me?”

“I had a bit of help,” Arieta says. “From this fellow—”

She nods behind herself, tromping away from the door, and Varian pitches forward as he sees— “Ruddiger!”

The raccoon bounds across the room and into his outstretched arms, where he growls and grouses and noses at Varian’s chin; a scolding for the ages. He grins.

“Quite a smart raccoon you’ve got, there.” Arieta crouches by the hearth and begins to stack her firewood into a little grate, her mouth curled into an amused smile. “He came right up to me while I was chopping wood and would not leave me alone until I followed him. Led me straight to you.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Varian breathes, as he strokes the length of Ruddiger’s spine and the raccoon’s irate diatribe subsides into a contented purr. “You’re the best—and, and– thank you, too, Miss Zashin.”

“Arieta, please,” she says, tossing the last of her logs into the fire, which swallows it with a greedy crackle. She rocks back on her heels, watching him with vivid interest. “Hungry?”

“I— hn. Well– a little—”

“Sit.” She jerks her thumb at the table. “I’ve got a stew going—shouldn’t be a minute. Hope you don’t mind turnips.”

“Turnips are– thanks. They’re fine! Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, dear; anyone would do the same.”

Mr. Duval’s furious expression flashes through his mind again. The bloody mess Ruddiger made of his leg. _Murdered them._ Herrfeld’s people would probably consider dying in the snow a fair repayment for– for everything.

“I’m not sure about that,” he mutters.

This earns him a curious glance, but all Arieta says is, “How _did_ you end up all the way out here without even a coat, dear?”

The impulse to lie strikes like lightning. Varian flinches, running his fingers through Ruddiger’s coat, and swallows hard. “I– made a- a big mistake.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Arieta replies, mildly. “Few wind up freezing to death as a result.”

“No, it—” Varian closes his eyes, blowing his damp bangs out of eyes. Then he begins, haltingly, to explain. The rocks, and what came after. The amber. Arieta listens without interruption, her expression turning graver every minute as the tale unfolds.

When he finishes, stammering his way through the confrontation with Mr. Duval and his own hasty decision to run away, she releases a long, quiet sigh, and then murmurs, “You poor, poor thing. My word.”

“He was right,” Varian mumbles. “I did– k-kill those—”

“You don’t know that you did,” Arieta counters primly. Varian blinks; she ladles stew into a bowl and puts it in front of him, then follows it with a hunk of dark, nutty bread and a little dish filled with some sort of dried berry.

“…Pardon?”

She arches an eyebrow at him as she prepares her own meal. “By your own words, you don’t quite know _what_ you did,” she says. “Besides triggering some sort of magical reaction which engulfed your patients in this… amber. You _assume_ they are dead, because reason tells you that a person encased in stone cannot live. Yes?”

“…Yes…?”

“But this is magic, dear. It is stranger and wilder than you give it credit for. Now– don’t just sit there gaping while your stew gets cold. Eat.”

Varian obliges, dunking the bread into his stew and cramming it into his mouth; to hide his embarrassment as much as sate his hunger. The stew is heavy and warm and has an odd tang he’s never tasted before—though the overwhelming flavor is, as Arieta promised, turnip. “’s good.”

“That’s kind of you, dear.”

“But—” He swallows, and curiosity beats his hunger. “You- there’s really a chance they could still be alive?”

“Oh, more than a chance, I’d say.” Arieta scatters her berries into her stew and gives it a vigorous stir. “How much do you know about magic? I’d wager very little.”

“You’d be right.”

“Mm. Well.” Chuckling, she murmurs, “I know enough to get into trouble with—but it’ll be easier if I start at the beginning, won’t it? I grew up in a small Saporian village called Śaedhíhran, not far from Charcāthēn. The old capital; it’s quite a ways south.”

“O-oh.” He’s never met anyone Saporian before.

The corners of Arieta’s eyes crinkle as she smiles a little deeper. “Mm-hm. Well; I knew a little about magic—all Saporians do. But when I was, oh—how old are you, dear?”

“Four–” No. Gulping, he catches himself. “F-fifteen. I just– turned fifteen.”

Her gaze softens. “Fifteen. I wasn’t much older than you when I left—Corona. I traveled southeast, to Marne, and began my studies under the alchemist Sam Duenti—”

“You’re an alchemist, too!” That accounts for the smell; she must have a laboratory hidden away somewhere nearby.

Arieta grins. “An alchemist, and more. In Marne, you see, there are none of Corona’s silly restrictions on the study of magic; and I learned a great deal.”

She pauses then, drumming her fingers against the table, and Varian takes advantage of the silence to shovel more stew into his mouth. It warms, though not as much as the prospect of maybe, _finally,_ getting real answers.

“So… the black rocks?”

“All in good time,” Arieta murmurs. “Where do you think magic comes from, Varian?”

“I— well.” He’s never given it much thought; in his hazy memories of holiday services in the chapel in Herrfeld, the dominant feeling is gnawing restlessness and boredom, but the accumulated sermons left him with a vague impression of magic as something that is just… _there._ Just a natural phenomenon science hasn’t unraveled yet. “I didn’t know it came _from_ … anywhere,” he admits.

“There are,” she says, “two… facets of of existence. In Saporian they are called _chathghē_ and _chozonghē;_ in Coronan— Hmm. The closest translation, I believe, is the sublime and the profane. Two realms, intertwined, adjacent, but never touching; both teeming with life.” Arieta props her chin in her hand, gazing at him with a toothy smile. “All magic flows from the beings of the sublime, dear, if you trace the currents far enough. The sundrop and moonstone are no exception.”

“You know about them?”

She laughs. “Of course. Legends of them abound everywhere—though separating fact from fiction is… another matter. In the common telling they are artifacts of the elder spirits Huma and Turul; two halves of a single heart.” This turn of phrase appears to amuse her, though what the joke might be, Varian can’t imagine. Her eyes sparkle as she continues, “At any rate, the rocks grow from the moonstone, but the sundrop plays some role in their making; or at least, so my experiments have led me to believe. I have been studying them here for the last little while, you see.”

“Really?”

Her expression turns solemn. “I am given to travel; until recently it had been many years since I last set foot in Śaedhíhran. When I returned home this summer, I found my village overrun by the black rocks. Something of that kind happened to Herrfeld; I am sure you can imagine the devastation. Regrettably—” acid creeps into her tone “—the destruction of an impoverished Saporian village garners little attention from the powers that be. My people entreated King Frederic for help, and he sent them nothing. I resolved to find a solution myself, but, it being unlawful to practice magic in Corona…”

The pieces click together as she spreads her hands in an expressive shrug. “You’ve been living here—studying the rocks!—in secret! And—there’s an entrance into the caverns under the mountains somewhere nearby, isn’t there?”

“You _are_ a clever one,” Arieta says. “Yes, indeed; right under our feet, in fact.” She winks, and in a loud whisper adds, “There’s a trapdoor under the rug.”

“That’s _amazing!—_ uh. I- I mean, I’m sorry about what happened to your village.”

“So am I.” A sad smile touches her lips. “But it seems to me that we could help each other, dear.”

“Help…?”

Pensively, she taps her spoon against the rim of her bowl, shaking away stray droplets of stew. “We’ve both been done an injustice,” she murmurs. “Frederic ignored the plight of my people; and yours, it seems, seized upon the first opportunity to vilify you. I imagine they’ve always feared you, haven’t they? A bright boy such as yourself, so hungry for knowledge. People fear what they cannot understand, and hate those who seek to unravel those mysteries.”

“I– I wouldn’t say _hate…_ ”

“They drove you out and left you for dead,” Arieta points out mildly. “Indifference seems the best they have to offer you.”

And he can’t… argue with that. Mr. Duval’s rage he– can understand. If Varian had stumbled upon twenty-six people seemingly dead by someone else’s hand, he would have leapt to conclusions too—but. The people of Herrfeld never _have_ done much more than tolerate his presence. No doubt his departure for the apprenticeship in Herzingen prompted many a sigh of relief.

He slumps. Arieta reaches across the small table to clasp his hand. “But I understand you,” she says, softly. “Knowledge is the antidote to fear, and that is what I have always sought, my whole life long. Like you.” Varian manages a feeble grin at that, and, nodding, she continues, “Moreover, we have a problem in common, do we not? Stay here, and we can unravel the secrets of these rocks together. Save my village, and rescue your patients from the amber.”

Varian bites his lip. It isn’t as if he has any _better_ options, but— “And Ruddiger?”

“The raccoon? Of course, dear! I would never oblige you to give up your companion.” Wry amusement colors her face. “What sort of monster do you take me for?”

He relaxes. Even Dad forbade Ruddiger from the house, and though he’d never spoken the thought aloud, Varian knows he considered the raccoon more a pest than a pet. It’s… nice, to encounter someone who _gets it._

“Then I’d love to stay,” he says. “Thank you so much, I- I won’t let you down.”

Arieta beams. “I’m certain you won’t, dear.”

## ❦

It is dark when Adira comes to Herrfeld. The snow glistens opalescent in the shine of the waxing moon, and the village sinks in the desolate, dreary silence of a place abandoned. She frees the shadowblade from its sheath and carries it in her hand as she treads closer to the Kardossh house; it is that kind of night.

The house exudes a breathless silence, and shadows more of death than of sleep. Adira lingers at the threshold for a moment, listening.

From within sighs the faint, faint whisper of the moon-song.

She steps inside.

One by one, she checks the rooms on the upper level of the house. Darkness congeals in every empty corner; in the kitchen, the drawers sag open, their contents strewn over the floor. Quirin’s room and the boy’s have both been thoroughly tossed, and a glance beneath Quirin’s bed confirms that the lockbox is missing.

_Damn._

That leaves the cellar; and an unfamiliar reluctance to venture into that black abyss.

Even before Quirin’s message reached her, she _knew_ some calamity had struck in Herrfeld. Her brand erupted in searing pain at what she now supposes must have been the very moment when Rapunzel touched the rocks, and faded over the next few hours into an unpleasant _itch_ that persists even now; an irksome demand for her attention.

Still, she hadn’t expected… this.

Adira sighs. She brushes her fingertips against the talisman dangling from her belt, and it warms to her touch; pale blue light shimmers out of it, illuminating the stairs down into the cellar.

A cold draft wafts against her cheeks as she descends. On the last step, Adira stops, breath caught in her throat; the talisman’s light catches the hulking golden flanks of– of…

“… _Quirin._ ”

Others, too, suspended in the prodigious heaps of amber that have overtaken the cellar. But it is Quirin who captures her attention; his body contorted in struggle, preserved in the very substance he must have fought so hard to escape. Adira drifts from the steps and presses her palm flat against the amber, heart sinking. His eyes are closed; he holds one hand outstretched, as if to reach for help that never came.

She kneels, trailing her fingers down the icy surface of the amber, and breathes out long and slow. Quirin– had always been the sturdiest of them; stolid and stoic, a man who carved himself of stone. When he set his mind to something he seldom budged thereafter. It is– it is… unbalancing to find him lost, and she is not sure what to say.

At length, she murmurs simply, “I’m sorry, old friend.”

_And where is Varian?_

Grim, Adira rises again. Cursory examination of the other bodies trapped inside the amber confirms that none are Quirin’s son; a small comfort, though the ransacked state of the cellar gives her little hope as to his present safety. Her grip on the shadowblade tightens.

Rumors of evacuations from the Anbruch area hurried her journey north, but refugees do not tear their own homes apart before they flee. The state of Quirin’s home suggest events took a more sinister turn, and even if Varian had nothing to do with— _that_ —her gaze lingers for another moment on the amber, the dead, before she turns away.

She can imagine the suspicion falling upon his head; the search for answers; a mob of scared and angry people, or swarm of guards hungry for justice.

 _Anbruch, then._ It is the nearest city equipped with a jail; and if Varian isn’t awaiting judgment there, Herzingen seems the next likeliest choice. She’ll find him—liberate him from the callous and careless machinery of Coronan law—and then resume her investigations fortified by whatever he can tell her about what happened here.

 _And if they hurt him,_ Adira thinks as she mounts the steps to the ground level, _I will ensure they regret it._


	22. Chapter 21: Color and Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _whoof._ This one was, for some reason, probably the hardest chapter in the whole fic to write. It should also, hopefully, be the last chapter I post late, because I'm viciously excited for every chapter between now and the end. 
> 
> See y'all again on Friday! ♥

###  **Chapter 21: Color and Light**

“I’m sorry,” Sir Peter says. It seems like the only thing he remembers how to say, almost. And, “I know how difficult– that is, it’s hard to— well. I’m sorry.”

Rapunzel stares at him. She doesn’t know what to say, either. Dad paces behind Sir Peter’s desk, face somber, hands clasped; Sir Peter looks half sick with fatigue. She opens her mouth, and closes it again. “I don’t—”

 _Believe._ Cass wouldn’t—

But the words run dry, because they wouldn’t lie to her, either.

“It’s a shock,” he croaks. “Princess, I know you and she were… close. I…”

“I want to see it.” A plea; a doubt. “The- the note.”

Part of her expects an excuse, or maybe hopes for one. For Sir Peter to decline on the grounds that it’s too sensitive to share, or that she ought to just take him at his word—but he nods, instead, drawing a slip of paper from his desk, and hands it over. Rapunzel unfolds it with trembling fingers. Cassandra’s handwriting cuts across the page, stark.

She sinks onto one of the stools in front of the desk and looks at the note and reads those four terse sentences over, and over, and over again. Between the third and fourth repetitions, Dad comes around the desk to rest his hands on her shoulders; squeezes, and mutters something sympathetic, garbled through the cacophony of her pulse.

_I stole the Journal—_

and _I’m not sorry._

“I don’t understand,” she whispers.

Sir Peter gives her another bleakly helpless glance. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I never imagined…”

Her fingers twitch with an urge to crumple the note and cast it into the hearth, or set it alight with the candle guttering in its own wax as it burns low on Sir Peter’s desk. She drops it on the tabletop instead, quivering.

It’s still almost dark; the sky outside the window, a dour indigo not yet singed by dawn. Johanna woke her only a few minutes ago and rushed her down here, where Sir Peter and her father informed her that Cass… left, during the night. And confessed.

“How could she—” Protests, crowding together, trampling; a blockade in her throat. She swallows hard, mumbling, “What if she’s lying?”

Anyone can write _anything_ in a letter. That doesn’t make it true.

Something sparks in Sir Peter’s eyes, a forlorn hope kindled and extinguished again in a breath. “Difficult as it is for me to admit, it… it does fit the facts of the case, as we know them.” His gloves creak from the force with which he grips his armrests. “We did… suspect that the perpetrator had assistance from inside the palace. Someone who could pass along information about the patrols, security arrangements around the vault. And… Cassandra could have taken my keys with relative ease.”

“But—she’s _Cass,_ she wouldn’t—”

“I don’t _want_ to believe she would, either,” Sir Peter says, brusque. Dad squeezes her shoulders again, until Rapunzel wriggles and his hands slide away. “But the fact… is. She incriminated herself. Until she’s in custody—”

“You’re going to _arrest her?_ ”

He winces. “Once we find her, yes. Your Highness—”

“But she’s your _daughter._ ”

“Rapunzel,” Dad rumbles. He touches her shoulder again; this time, heavy with reproof. “No one is exempt from the law. For the sake of fairness, for justice to be served—”

“Dad—”

“Sweetheart. You’re going to be the queen someday.” Dad steps in front of her, sinking to one knee as he gathers her hands into his. “That means— Darling, you know better than most what a dangerous and- and _cruel_ place the world can be. And how… sometimes, people– even the ones we trust most, aren’t… worthy, of that trust.”

Shadows of an old, old pain crease his brow, and Rapunzel blanches as his gaze shifts from her to her hair. Her blonde hair. Her magical hair. Her—

“When people show us their true natures, we cannot shut our eyes,” he murmurs. “And when evil threatens Corona, it is my job as king to protect my kingdom, and my people. One day, that responsibility will pass to you, sweetheart, and this… is an important lesson for that day. Our personal feelings must not interfere with our duty.”

But what good is being Queen if she can’t protect the people she loves? Fretful, Rapunzel tugs her hands out of his so she can rub her face, stifling a groan. “Cass _isn’t_ evil.”

“I know.” Agreement catches her off guard, and when she peeks through her fingers, Dad offers her a tiny, encouraging smile. “But it does seem that she’s… fallen under the influence of evil people. Bringing her into custody now is the right choice—the only choice. For everyone’s safety, and yours most of all.”

 _That_ is too far. “Cass would _never_ hurt me!”

“With… all due respect, Your Highness, she already has. The labyrinth is impassible without the Journal’s maps. Cassandra cares for you—and I do believe she would never lift a hand against you herself. But… stealing the Journal enabled the Separatists to capture you last month.”

“She _saved_ me at Janus Point—”

“Which does not absolve her of responsibility for the Journal’s theft, nor its consequences.” Sir Peter massages his temples, haggard. “I doubt she realized _you_ would be the specific target of that raid, so she interfered when she saw you in danger. Nevertheless…”

Tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes, then. A few weeks ago they were showering Cassandra in praise, and now—now she stares into Sir Peter’s despondent face, and Dad’s sternly sympathetic one, and realizes, her heart sinking, that this is not a battle she can win. They’ve made up their minds to treat Cass like a criminal, and nothing she can say will change that.

_Corona executes traitors._

Executed Cassandra’s _parents._

She shudders. _I won’t let that happen to Cass._

If arguing with Dad and Sir Peter isn’t enough, she’ll just have to find another way. Maybe there’s a loophole in Coronan law that can save her friend; and she’ll get Lance and Eugene working on an escape route from the dungeons. Just… just in case.

_I’ll do whatever it takes._

## ❦

She begs off her lessons for the day, letting tears well up in her eyes, letting her lip tremble until Nigel sighs and says he’ll have a word with her tutors about her needing some time to herself. Inside, her mind feels polished and sharp as a dagger, and she makes a swift return to her bedroom to plan.

While the morning ripens, she paces her bedroom with Pascal dozing on her shoulders and a paintbrush bouncing between her fingers, pausing every few steps to scrawl new ideas onto a spare canvas. Step one: figure out where Cass is now. Step two: establish a line of communication. The royal dovecote uses pigeons to deliver mail—perhaps Owl could do the same? Step three: get all the details from Cass, who will no doubt be relieved to know that her friends still have faith in her. Step four: compose a legal defense and persuade her Dad to offer Cass a full pardon if she comes home. And an addendum: If Cass is arrested before Rapunzel can _fix_ this, help her escape.

Rapunzel is frowning at this map of her plans, tapping her brush pensively against her chin and wondering whether it would be worth it to _go with_ Cass in the event of a prison break, when Eugene and Lance wander into her room. One glance at their faces is all she needs to know they haven’t heard yet.

“M-m-mo-orning, Sunshine,” Eugene says, cracking his jaw around an enormous yawn. “Sleep good? I sure did.”

“Cass left,” she replies crisply.

“What?”

“I know,” Lance says, at the same time.

“…You know?”

Lance clears his throat. “We-ell, you know, she stopped by the inn before she left. Gave me this, to give to you, which, matter of fact, is why I’m here.”

He pulls a letter out of his vest, and Rapunzel’s heart soars. She snatches it from him and devours it, savoring every word; like a warm meal after weeks of starvation. _These_ words sound like Cass— _her_ Cass—and if she had any shred of doubt that she might be wrong, that Cass really could have betrayed her, this lays them to rest with absolute finality.

“I _knew_ there had to be more to it,” she crows. “She must have done it for a good reason—we just have to figure out _what._ ”

“Done what? …Left?”

Tucking the letter into her satchel, Rapunzel resumes her pacing. “Cass left a note for her Dad, claiming _she_ stole the Journal of Herz der Sonne—”

“She _what?!_ ”

“—I tried to tell them she wasn’t a traitor, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Now they’re hunting her, and if they find her they’ll have her hanged, but I’m _not_ going to let that happen.” She fumes, teetering before she spins around to take stock of their thunderstruck faces. “ _So,_ we need to find her and help her first.”

Eugene pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh…kay. Okay. So– how do you plan on doing… that?”

“First we have to find her. This letter proves there’s more to the story, but we need more details; enough to prove she’s _not_ a Separatist. Knowing her real motives will help, too. I can’t leave the palace, but you two can, and if we ask around I bet we can find other people willing to help look for her.”

“Princess—”

“Rapunzel.” She raises her eyebrows, and Lance glances away, coughing. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“I’d say it’s more of a… constructive criticism,” Lance says, each word drawn out slow and careful; then, in a rush, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rapunzel, but—are you sure that’s what Cassandra _wants?_ ”

“For her friends to support her? Of course! Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s… just… well, she seemed pretty set on, uh, burning her bridges when I talked to her.” Lance shrinks before the force of her glare, but he forges on regardless. “And if she didn’t mention where she was going in that letter, then… maybe she’d rather you didn’t try to track her down.”

 _Or maybe she worried I’d turn against her like her dad did._ Rapunzel bites the tip of her tongue, frustrated that Lance can’t see that, and instead says, “Did she tell _you_ where she was going?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes people just want a fresh start.”

Sometimes. Lance, she supposes, would know—in light of his history. But- but that’s _not Cass._ She knows Cass; knows how much her friend loves Corona. Even her second letter emphasizes—reluctance to leave bleeds from every line. If Dad and Sir Peter hadn’t _forced_ Cass to leave, she wouldn’t have.

“I just don’t think that’s true of Cass,” she insists. “She didn’t have a choice, she had to leave. That’s not the same thing.”

“…Look, Rapunzel.” Eugene cups his hands behind his neck, making the tiny rubbing motions he uses to wake himself up in the mornings; groans. “I know the last thing you- the last thing _any_ of us is to think Cass could do… something like that, or belong to an organization that wants to burn Corona to the ground—”

“Because she _doesn’t._ ”

“—but… If even her _dad_ is convinced, then… maybe she does?”

It’s like the floor drops out from beneath her feet. Rapunzel grips her paintbrush, rigid with surprise, and when Lance voices his agreement it sounds tinny and far away through the ringing in her ears. _Not them too._

She swallows several times before the crumpled feeling in her chest flakes away and she can grind out the words, “Cass is our _friend,_ in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t think Cassandra would take credit for something she didn’t do; and… well.” Lance, sighing, flops into one of the armchairs she keeps by the hearth, crossing his legs over the armrest. “It’s a lot more complicated than folks in Herzingen think– the Separatist thing, I mean.”

“Is it.”

”And—let’s say, as a hypothetical, she _is_ a Separatist, dyed-in-the-wool, all in for Saporian sovereignty.” He props his chin on his hand, his voice mild and musing. “That’s something you’ve gotta play real close to your chest, isn’t it? You’ve gotta keep your head down. And… Princess– Rapunzel, I’m sorry, but I’ve _met_ actual Separatists. They are _passionate_ about it; if Cassandra’s one, loving you isn’t ever gonna change her mind.”

She bristles. “Cass is _not_ a Separatist.”

“How do you know?”

“I just– I just know! She’s my friend! Friends just know!”

“Maybe you’re right.” Lance shrugs. “Either way, I really do think this—” a nod at her canvas, the scrawled plans “—is a nice idea, but not… something she would want. She has her own plan, I think; she just doesn’t want us to know what it is. We should trust her to take care of herself.”

Unable to believe what she’s hearing, Rapunzel turns to Eugene, hoping for support—but Eugene, to her horror, sighs like it’s being dragged out of him and mutters, “Gotta admit I’m with Lance on this one. Obviously we’ll try to help her out if she gets arrested, but for now… if she wants to go, Sunshine, let her go.”

“But she _didn’t_ want to– Eugene, read the letter!”

Seething, she pushes the letter at him, and he skims it with his eyebrows up and his mouth pressed into a firm line. “Reading between the lines here, she… doesn’t sound too broken up about leaving Herzingen—just about comforting you.”

“She only left because her dad wanted to send her away!”

“Yes, but Sunshine, she didn’t just _leave._ ” Eugene combs his fingers through his hair, irritation flitting across his face; he takes a deep breath, and smooths himself out. “She _confessed to treason_ on her way out. You don’t _do_ that if you plan on coming back!”

“But— _no._ What about this don’t you get, Eugene? She wouldn’t just…”

_She wouldn’t just leave me._

Rapunzel sags. The letter, a paltry trail of breadcrumbs. All her plans built on the assumption that Eugene and Lance, if nobody else, would see what she saw; all ruined now.

Eugene leans in, cupping her face. His eyes are warm and deep and _kind,_ and it’s tempting to let herself sink into them, to soak in his warmth and his touch, and the softness of his voice when he says, “If this really means that much to you, sweetheart, of course I’ll help. I’ll follow your lead, alright? Whatever you need from me. This is… it’s a big thing, that Cass did. But we’re here for you.”

_But you’re not here for Cass._

“Thanks, Eugene,” she mutters, but her heart isn’t in it.

Maybe she’ll even take him up on it; get him and Lance researching Coronan law while she’s stuck in lessons. But she knows the truth, even if Eugene doesn’t want to admit it.

She’s on her own. She has to figure this out on her own.

## ❦

A small, selfish sliver of gratitude slipped into his heart when word of murders in Herrfeld landed on his desk. Any excuse to get away from Herzingen—and if the Commander of the King’s Watch wanted to personally inspect the scene of one of the worst mass killings in Coronan history, who could object?

That sliver festers into guilt now, as he sits astride Maximus on the village outskirts. The massive thicket of black rock surrounding it defies all his expectations, and the early Sicáraen chill is filled with unfamiliar teeth.

 _Eerie_ isn’t a word Peter thinks often, but… Herrfeld strikes him as eerie.

When he arrived in Anbruch early this morning, Captain Reis made an offhand remark about not bringing horses into the village, and Peter had put it down to ordinary skittishness. Now that he’s _here,_ it’s obvious that the problem is not one of equine temperament but pure physical size; even the largest of the gaps between the rocks are only just big enough for a grown man to squeeze through.

Not seeing any better options, he tethers Max to one of the smaller rocks at the fringes, and then worms his way through the barrier.

Desolate silence greets him on the other side. Snow and ruined buildings torn apart by rocks, not a person in sight. Peter wanders for a while until he finds the tavern, and with it the first signs of life. Muffled conversation dribbles though the front door. He pushes it open and shuffles in.

Four men are gathered around one of the corner tables; the barkeeper is at the counter, packing empty flagons into a crate. The rest is all emptiness.

One of the men gets to his feet—a tall, lanky scarecrow of a man. He doesn’t look like he’s slept in days. “Officer—you’re with the King’s Watch?”

He eyes the Coronan sun embossed on Peter’s breastplate, looking impressed when Peter nods. “I’m Commander Morgenstern,” Peter says, to low murmurs of approval from the other men at the table.

“Commander! Well– our thanks to the crown for taking our problems seriously,” the man says, rubbing his eyes. “Gabe Duval, Sir. That’s Mr. Portner—” he indicates the barkeeper “—owner of this establishment, not that it’ll matter much longer. And these men are Tardif Cobb, Reynauld Baum, Emory Fitzroy.”

“A pleasure, gentlemen. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”

Duval grunts. “Anbruch’s lads have been over the crime scene already. Captain Reis gave everyone the all-clear to leave yesterday; most folks are headed to Anbruch anyway, so if the Watch needs help with their inquiries, they’ll know where we are. I… hope that’s all in order.”

“Of course. Can’t say I blame you for wanting to leave.”

Fitzroy snickers into his flagon; the others just sit in defeated silence. Duval says, “I could show you to the Kardossh house, if you’d like to see for yourself.”

“I would.”

He stands aside while Duval piles on his cloak and takes a lantern down from its hook by the tavern door—off Peter’s curious glance, he elaborates, “Cellar’s dark. You’ll need it.”

Once they’re outside, with the snow all around to muffle their speech, Duval grows abruptly more talkative. “Damn rocks are still growing. Didn’t notice at first; started so gradual… But the morning after all… at the Kardossh house happened, some of the houses had got pushed up off their foundations in the night. I came back from Anbruch with Captain Reis– it was me who… discovered…” He clears his throat. “Anyway, folks were all packing up to leave. We’re the last. Been trying to get the animals out, but… this gets much worse we may just have to leave ’em.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hard times,” Duval mutters.

When they reach the Kardossh house, Duval hands over the lantern and says, “Cellar’s the first door on the left. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait outside. Bad enough seeing it once.”

The house creaks as Peter steps inside it. The door to the cellar gapes open, a yawning black mouth exhaling a draft of frigid air. He takes his time lighting the lantern, breath puffing in visible clouds around his head.

 _Varian Kardossh was Cassandra’s friend._ Or she had mentioned him a time or two, after the Goodwill Festival. He’d been with them when the Princess was attacked.

All week, he’s marinated in a poisoned cocktail of guilt and shame, disappointment and grief. It churns sickeningly in his gut, as it has every time he thinks about his daughter.

Where had he gone _wrong?_

He still remembers the first time he brought her to see the Journal. It broke from procedure—but Cassandra was six years old, and bright as anything, and starry-eyed about his job. He’d let her tag along when he did his rounds in the Archive, and snuck her inside the vault for a peak.

She was too little to see over the podium, so he knelt down and stood her up on his knee. Let her wobble on her tiptoes, even as he held up his arms to catch her if she fell. She liked doing things herself, even then.

“Cassandra,” he said, “what you see before you is one of the most important artifacts in all of Corona. The maps contained in these pages could lead to the destruction of our home if they fell into the wrong hands, and if you want to be a guard someday—” and she had _always_ aspired to the King’s Watch; his heart feels like a flayed, dying thing to think of it now “—you must swear to always protect them. Whatever the cost, no matter what.”

“No matter what,” she echoed, in the awe-struck, solemn way children have. Then she fired off a salute, lost her balance, and toppled into his arms. He ruffled her curls, and said _that’s my girl_ while she giggled. They’d locked up the vault together, and he let her heave her slight weight against the door to double-check that it was shut tight. Her eyes shone with the thrill of that responsibility.

 _When,_ Peter wonders, as he hefts the lantern and descends into the cellar, _did that change?_

_And who told her about the letter?_

That’s a… barbed question. One he doesn’t want to touch, but one that has stuck like a burr in the back of his mind ever since the night she asked for it.

He was a Sergeant during the Socona poisonings. The most he knew of the letter was the fervent elation that swept the barracks when Commander Faramond announced that a conspirator had confessed. Peter never questioned it—why should he? Guilt could eat people alive, and then, when the Separatists protested their innocence, well. The threat of the gallows could make a liar out of anyone.

Five years later, he was a Lieutenant with full access to the records of the King’s Watch, and Cassandra started to ask about her birth parents. He’d dug the file out of the Archive to refresh his memory on the details, and to puzzle over an explanation suitable for a nine-year-old who seemed to remember nothing of her life before he brought her home.

He read the letter.

Then he’d sat for a long time, stunned.

It was a plea for help, that letter; one written in stilted Coronan, but for all that its meaning was still sharp and unmistakable. Nobody reading in good faith could mistake it for a confession.

An old case file like that, no one would notice—or care—about the letter’s absence. Peter had burned it, in the end, and as the flames devoured it he resolved to keep its contents, and their implications, to himself. The Hárohams and their alleged conspirators were dead; the damage already done. And the thought of burdening Cassandra with the knowledge that her parents were executed on trumped-up charges was more than he could bear.

What good would it do to rip open old wounds?

He hemmed and hawed for a year before her persistent questioning wore him down, and he showed her the altered file. Let her read it while he told her the official story, and the secret buzzed like a wasp in the back of his mind.

_I should have told her._

Peter stumbles as his boots hit the cellar floor. He stares at the flagstones for a moment, awash in a tide of guilt, not yet ready to look up and see the horror Captain Reis described in his message.

If he had told Cassandra the truth, he could have softened the blow. Told her of the terror that gripped the city while the sickness tore through Herzingen’s people, and the terrible hunger for something or some _one_ to blame. How the Hárohams were caught in an unstoppable storm through no fault of their own, and that was a lesson in the fallibility of the King’s Watch. How they had a duty to investigate from a place of rationality, not fear or anger.

He could have _comforted_ her.

As it is… he can imagine how the Separatists might spin the whole debacle to lure his daughter onto their sigh, exploiting the very values of fair play and justice he had worked so hard to instill in her, and the thought makes his skin crawl.

Shuddering, he finds his nerve, and looks up.

His mouth goes dry.

There had been a fad, a few years ago, for pendants with large settings of amber with insects trapped inside. All the fashionable ladies of the court wore them. Spiders and ants and dragonflies, fossilized in polished gemstones. It always gave him an… uncomfortable feeling, and he had been relieved when the trends veered toward jewels of a less unsettling nature.

Seeing _people_ like—

Bile rushes up his throat. Retching, Peter twists away from the monstrous heap of amber; the foul contents of his stomach splatter the foot of the stairs.

He bends over, resting his forehead against the splintering handrail. Stale air tainted with the acid stench of bile burns his nostrils. Images of the bodies suspended inside the amber flicker behind his eyelids; contorted, grasping hands, cries for help frozen mid-word.

_What could possess someone to do this?_

Varian Kardossh is a child. Reis’s succinct summary of the murders suggested that the victims were all injured by the rocks prior to their—his gorge rises, and he gulps more air—encasement. That Varian ran the village apothecary by himself. Maybe he had cracked under the strain and killed them all.

Or perhaps he tried something he thought would help.

 _He’s a kid,_ Peter thinks, through the haze of nausea. _Village brands him a murderer, he gets scared, runs away._

Cold follows him up the stairs. He doesn’t try for a second look.

_Rationality._

_Not anger or fear._

What’s past is… past, but the future is never set in stone. Peter stumbles out of the Kardossh house and drinks in lungfuls of clean, crisp air, welcoming the tingling feeling of ice at the back of his throat. Fortifying. His head feels clearer than it has in days.

He can’t take back the mistakes of the past. He can’t get his daughter back. But he _can_ set the course for a better future. In Anbruch, he’ll press Captain Reis for a fair investigation—not to treat Varian Kardossh like a cold-blooded killer until, and unless, he proves himself to be so.

## ❦

“—And _this_ is ‘Daybreak on the Golden Spring.” Nigel clears his throat as he glides to a halt before the next painting, and Rapunzel gives it a dutiful glance. A tumble of pale stone, dewy ferns; honeycombed with small azure pools. Steam rises off the water in misty suggestions of gold, giving the whole landscape a gauzy, sun-struck look. “Marvelous piece. From Pamona Percy’s garden series; she completed this one in fifteen… forty-six, if memory serves. See how the water shimmers? She mixed powdered nacre with her paints to achieve an iridescent effect.”

“…It’s very pretty.”

“Yes, I rather like it,” Nigel says. He glances at her sidelong, spindly fingers climbing upward to fiddle with his cravat. “Is… this truly helping, Your Highness?”

Rapunzel inhales. The clean, pleasant air of the gallery; bright with polish and leaden with the inescapable attention of her security detail. The first week of Cassandra’s absence flew by in a blur of pitying glances and dusty legal tomes in the Solveig library and ferocious headaches that have her lying awake for hours, adrift in pain. She asked Dad yesterday for an update on the Cass situation, but he refused to discuss it beyond assurances that it’s being _dealt with,_ and she had decided it was time for a change in tact.

When, over dinner, Nigel mentioned a new exhibit had opened this month in the Gallery of the Seven Kingdoms, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. As Dad’s trusted advisor, Nigel must know _something_ about the search.

It’s just… harder than she thought it would be to nudge him away from the topic of paintings. That’s all.

She forces a smile anyway. “It is, thank you. I had no idea you liked art so much!”

“Not a drop of talent myself, but…” Nigel sighs, casting a rather soppy glance at the painting. “I do admire those who create. And the history is rather fascinating.”

“I agree,” Rapunzel says, voice only a little tight. She’s proud of herself for that. “ _Cass_ used to tell me such interesting things about the paintings in the palace galleries…”

The awkward look he’s worn every time she mentions Cass slithers onto his face again, and Rapunzel bites down on a scream of frustration. “Ah… yes. Most of those were commissioned over the years by various members of the court; some have quite… _intricate_ political histories. For example—”

And then he’s off on another tangent about the cousin of so-and-so, the marquis of somewhere-or-other, and petty politics wrapped in layers of paint. Rapunzel pastes on another smile and listens with as much patience as she can, which isn’t much. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect Nigel of wasting her time _on purpose._

Some time after her gaze has begun to wander, but before her vision goes out of focus altogether, she notices a fresh layer of varnish on the discomfort of people _watching_ her, and she sneaks a surreptitious peek down the gallery, past her pair of guards, trying to determine where it comes from.

 _There!_ — A woman tucked into a small alcove between two paintings, watching with intent, emerald-green eyes.

She’s striking, in a brutal sort of way. All jutting cheekbones and a prodigious chin; her graying hair swept back into a black net at the nape of her neck. She wears a gorgeous dress of a deep, foresty green, fairly dripping with black lace and feathery embroidery and intricate, swirling beadwork that gives the strange impression of ants crawling in damp moss; in one hand she carries a slender black cane.

When she notices Rapunzel noticing _her,_ her mouth curls into a wry little smirk. She glances at Nigel, winks, and then turns and disappears into the alcove.

Frowning, Rapunzel veers away from Nigel—who continues to drone on, oblivious to her disinterest—and sidles up to the alcove.

Which isn’t, she realizes once she gets closer, an alcove at all; it’s another archway, leading into a little side-room of the gallery. The walls are the same plain, creamy plaster as all the other rooms, but the paintings hung on them seem… _different,_ somehow.

Curious, she wanders inside. Not one of the paintings is labeled, save a tarnished plaque affixed to the far wall, which, mystifyingly, reads:

_Sugracha il Pchela, b. 9581 Ghoshnīchē CHL._

_Wrath of the Virulent Sky, 9589 Nicheílaen CHL - 8 Ghoshnīchē SL_

_Oil on Yew_

No less puzzled than before, Rapunzel steps away to examine the paintings themselves. None of the loose, exuberant brushstrokes of the rest of the exhibit—these are done in frantic jots, in crests and valleys of paint that in some places pile inches thick on the smooth wooden panels upon which the artist worked; such a violence of paint that she can’t discern anything but vivid smears of color, kaleidoscopic shapes; here and there a delicate eye, a gleaming fang, a crimson rose, a beetle with jasper wings.

“Stand further away from them, dear.”

The voice is pleasant enough, but Rapunzel still gasps as she whips around. The woman in green leans idly against the frame of the arch leading back to the main galleries.

“So sorry to alarm you, dear; I thought you must have noticed me as you came in.” Grinning, she crooks a finger. “Come stand by me, so you can see them as they’re intended.”

“Who are you?” Rapunzel asks. Her pulse dwindles back to normal; she relaxes out of her startled flinch, and breathes, and pads across the room to to join her.

“My name is Artemisia Sugarby— Mrs. Sugarby, if you please. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess.”

That surprises her, though, she supposes, rueful, it really shouldn’t. Before he agreed to let her visit the Gallery, Dad had insisted—over her protests—on cajoling the curators to restrict visitors for the afternoon. She and Nigel have the place to themselves, save for the guards trotting in her wake.

“Do you work for the Gallery?” she asks, tentative.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Sugarby says brightly. “Not _yet;_ I’m an art teacher, you see, but I only arrived in Herzingen a few days ago. My work here begins next week.”

“…An art teacher?” Excitement bursts in her chest, flooding her veins with dizzy warmth; because she can’t imagine anything more _perfect_ than regular art lessons for getting her out of the palace. Dad won’t question a sudden passion for honing her artistic abilities, and if she exaggerates the length of her lessons just a bit and plays her cards right with Mrs. Sugarby, she can paint her way to a few precious moments of unsupervised time every day. That’s _just_ what she needs to start figuring out how to contact Cass.

Mrs. Sugarby laughs—a warm, happy laugh that sounds strange coming from the severity of her face—and says, “From your enthusiasm, I take it you’re an artist yourself? How delightful. I’d be delighted to teach you, of course—but first, my dear, the paintings.”

Rapunzel obeys the little gesture she makes to turn and look, and the paintings pour out to meet her.

From this distance the maddened hurricanes of color and texture consuming each panel seem to melt into fevered clarity. In one painting, a twisted tree lifts its jeweled crown to the turbulent sky, its branches foaming with liquid light; in another, a great boar stalks alone down a beach, dripping water like diamonds, cloaked in ocean spray, honeysuckle vines twined and blossoming between its bristles. Green lightning laces jaundiced clouds above a ruined temple choked in strangler fig, rising behemothic from a murky swamp that stains the surrounding lands like a bruise; a vulture broods at the craggy peak of a mountain in its nest of vicious thorns and glistening, golden sundews, its head and chest caked in gore, its wings outstretched to blot out the howling stars—each scene bleeds into the next, a torrent of dreamlike images woven in and around and between each other, so vast and intricate that Rapunzel feels her eyes begin to blur; and when she wrenches her gaze away at last, she does so gasping for air. Her lungs burn for need of it; her face feels wet. The taste of salt lingers on her lips.

She sinks against the wall, panting. Mrs. Sugarby presses a handkerchief into her palm, and Rapunzel dabs at her eyes in a daze. Wet, salt— _tears_. She’s crying.

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathes.

“Did you like them?”

Whether she liked the paintings or not feels as unknowable as the depths of the sea or the blackest corners of the sky, at the moment; and she’s too out of breath to answer in any case. Mrs. Sugarby smiles, as if she understands the disorientation of Rapunzel’s thoughts perfectly, and, taking her by the arm, guides her to sit on a small bench at the center of the room. With her back to the paintings, to her small relief.

“H- how…”

“Oil paints on sanded panels of yew,” Mrs. Sugarby says, with a trace of amusement. “Profound inspiration, and devotion beyond words. There’s no trick to it, dear; it’s art.”

It’s like waking from a dream. The implacable _lucidity_ of the images fades, in her mind, to mere slurries of color. The details run together into vague impressions of trees, and wild beasts, a brewing storm.

She wipes her eyes again. “I don’t understand the dates.”

“On the plaque? Oh, they’re just old fashioned. These were painted seventeen hundred years ago, more or less.”

“Oh.”

Mrs. Sugarby pats her hand. “A painter can do anything,” she says, “once she strips her imagination bare and learns the love inscribed upon the bones. The only limitations are the ones we choose.”

“You’re an artist, too?”

This elicits a throaty chuckle, and Mrs. Sugarby murmurs, “Not one of good repute. But those who can’t _do,_ mm?”

That has the cadence of a figure of speech, but Rapunzel feels worn too thin to guess what it means. “Do you have any paintings displayed in- in the Gallery?”

“Goodness, _no,_ ” Mrs. Sugarby chortles. “No; my work is a touch too macabre for Coronan tastes, I’m afraid.”

“…What do you mean?”

“It concerns subjects of a morbid nature; the dead and the dying. Charnel houses, plague wards, funerals… Oh, don’t blanch, so. Everything has its own beauty, if you know how to look at it.”

She smiles, sly. Rapunzel, thinking of Gothel tumbling from the tower—the _scream,_ and the glimpse of her desiccated face flaking into ash in the instant before she fell, shudders. “I don’t think—”

“Most in Corona don’t,” Mrs. Sugarby says breezily. “But consider the carrion beetle, dear; to it, a rotting carcass is not an object of horror. It’s a home, a feast, a safe haven—and without their hunger, ours would be a world buried in filth and ripe with disease. And the beetle itself shines so prettily in the sunlight, for anyone with enough courage to look.”

She drums her fingernails against the ornate handle of her cane; polished jet, carved into the visage of a raven. Its throat of feathers spirals down into delicate scales, which blend into the body of the cane. “I suppose that is what interests me, as an artist,” Mrs. Sugarby adds. “Those intersections, between beautiful and grotesque. A lovely beetle colonizing the corpse of a rat. But that’s rather enough about me, isn’t it? Tell me, my dear; what inspires _you?_ ”

The question catches her off guard, and Rapunzel reaches for answers that thread through her fingers like smoke. At last, feebly, “My friends. And… pretty things.” Though maybe not by Mrs. Sugarby’s peculiar standards. “Nice things,” she amends.

“I see,” Mrs. Sugarby breathes. Her eyes are a bright, bright green. “Well, Rapunzel, I _do_ look forward to teaching you. I’m sure we’ll get along beautifully. Same time tomorrow?”

## ❦

She’s in her bedroom, with a paintbrush in her hand. The canvas is white and hungry, and Rapunzel gives it a tender smile as she rolls her brush against her palette. She _loves_ this, this infinitesimal moment before the first stroke, the vacant canvas; when anything might happen. It feels like flying.

The sunset burnishes the overcast sky into shades of molten steel. All the snow on the rooftops below glitters like gemstones. Contentment furls in her chest as the brush touches the canvas.

(She said yes. Did she say yes?

She’ll visit the Gallery again, tomorrow.)

Humming, Rapunzel blends out the thin line of a stroke that will become the back of Cassandra’s neck when this portrait is finished, and slips blissfully into the rhythm of the painting.


	23. Chapter 22: Zampermin

###  **Chapter 22: Zampermin**

She’s never been south of Anbruch before.

Southern Corona was a land of paper in her imagination, knitted together by the spidery traces of roads, the constellations of her father’s crimson pins. When she imagined Alcorsīa, when she thought of it at all, her mind conjured up a dingier, more furtive Herzingen.

Not this.

Alcorsīa piles up against the serrated cliffs that guard the southern coastline; a sprawling, cluttered ramble of squat brick houses that tumbles down to the great maw of the harbor. Old barnacled hulls fill in the gaps of the moldering brickwork; as if the sea spat up the carcasses of ships, long ago, and the city grew around and over them. Grime wars with frost for dominion over the desolate streets and cramped alleyways.

Cassandra descends through a charcoaled scar of buildings hollowed out by fire; where the snow drifts gritty and grey over the rutted streets and the smell of smoke lends a patina of grease to the frigid air. A pack of grubby children pick over the ruins, babbling at each other in a chaotic mixture of Saporian and Coronan. They watch her with a sharp, curious distrust that puts her in mind of crows.

She’s almost past them when she hears the soft patter of feet. One of them darts toward her—ignoring the others’ cries of _oh, don’t!_ and _Edhna, get back here!_ —and bounces on her toes just out of arm’s reach.

“Why do you have an owl?” she asks in Saporian.

“…He’s my friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Owl.”

Edhna wrinkles her nose. “That’s not a very good name.”

“Well, it’s his name.”

“Can I pet him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Owls don’t like that,” Cassandra says. The girl’s face falls and, feeling a twinge of pity, Cass kneels in front of her—she’s so small, she can’t be more than six—and says, “But you can feed him a treat, if you’d like.”

“Can I?”

The other children sidle closer while she digs one of Owl’s pellets out of her pocket and shows Edhna how to feed him. Owl, warbling drowsily, snaps the treat out of her flattened palm to astonished, delighted giggles, and Cassandra clears her throat. “What are you kids doing out here all alone?”

“We’re not alone,” Edhna says.

Cassandra glances at the rest of the children, wry. “Fair. But– without any adults?”

There’s a brief, shuffling silence while the children exchange glances; then one of the taller boys volunteers, “We’re just looking for stuff, miss.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, like… stuff.”

 _This would never happen in Herzingen._ Bands of urchins roaming the streets, scavenging. Cassandra catches a sigh behind her teeth and, after a moment’s hesitation, says, “Well… all right; look. My name’s Cassandra.”

“I’m Edhna,” Edhna chirps; the tall boy hisses, “Don’t tell her _that!_ She might—”

“Edhna’s a nice name,” Cassandra says, pitched low. This earns her a shy smile, and a nervous frown from the older boy. “Do you think you could help me?”

At this, the tall boy strides forward and puts his arm around Edhna’s shoulders; protective. “What _kind_ of help?”

“I’m looking for a woman named Moira Caine,” she replies. “You wouldn’t happen to know her, would you?”

She expects blank looks, maybe a few non-committal shrugs; instead, the children trade nervous looks, and the tall boy narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“She’s a friend of mine. Sort of.”

“Then how come you don’t know where she lives?”

“Because I’m not from Alcorsīa.”

“Where are you from, then?”

“Socona.” Half truths; she swallows hard, hoping the kids can’t sense her discomfort.

“Where’s that?”

“North of here. Near Artois.”

The tall boy mulls this over for a moment. Then, “How do you know Miss Caine, then?”

“We met during a– a job, last month.” Owl adjusts his perch on her hand, cooing, and she forces out a breath. _Only last month._ Tárosh feels like ancient history, now. “How do _you_ know her?”

He gives her a flat, impassive look that makes _her_ feel like a child, and Cassandra clamps down on her impatience.

“Look,” she says, “I’ll pay you.”

 _That_ gets their attention. A hungry gleam chips away some of the suspicion in the tall boy’s eyes, and while the others edge closer again, he says, “How much?”

“Half a piece each?”

Eight pairs of eyes go round with shock; Edhna gasps, and the tall boy snaps, “Huddle up.”

The children retreat, forming a knot a few paces away. Cassandra stays put, crouching in the snow while the kids jabber at each other in their rapid-fire pidgin; she catches fragments of the argument, “Miss Caine said—” and “four whole pieces!” and Edhna tugging on the tall boy’s sleeve as she whines, “But Maríe, she’s _nice._ ”

At last they reach some sort of consensus. Maríe marches back toward her with the other children flocking behind him. His sharp little chin juts past his tattered scarf as he delivers the verdict. “For half a piece each, up front, we’ll find Miss Caine and tell her to meet you by the statue of the Lady by the wharf, _if_ you’re really her friend.”

Bemused, Cassandra tugs her coin purse out of her vest and fumbles out eight half-silver pieces while Owl trills, disgruntled by the all the jostling. She says, “Throw in directions to this statue, and you’ve got a deal.”

She might, she reminds herself while the coins are distributed and Marie scrawls a map onto a grimy scrap of paper with a nub of charcoal, be setting herself up for a mugging. What better way to lure a mark in than with a pack of sad, hungry looking kids?

But she’s aiming for the harbor in any case, and she likes her odds better with a map, one hand on her sword, and a bit of forewarning better than wandering around an unfamiliar city and tripping over watchmen on patrol.

Walking the road from Artois to Alcorsīa took her two weeks; pigeons can cover that distance a dozen times over in the same stretch, which means the news of her treasonous crimes precedes her. If she’s unlucky, there’ll be wanted posters already, and even if there aren’t, Alcorsīa’s guards will have their eyes peeled for a young woman matching her description.

_Get to the harbor, find Caine._

A bitter laugh wells up in her throat as Maríe hands over his map. “This is the quickest way—” he traces a route with smudged fingers “—but if ya get lost, just keep on down. Water’s at the bottom.”

“Thank you.”

He gives her one last hard-eyed glance that looks about a decade too old for his face, and then the children scatter. Cassandra turns the map around a few times, until she’s sure she’s got it oriented the right way.

Doubts gnaw at the edges of her thoughts. She ignores them as she sets off, the gritty snow crunching beneath her boots.

 _It’s Caine,_ she reminds herself for the hundredth time, _or nobody._ Sure, the pirate is an arrogant _jerk_ with Separatist ties, but Cassandra does not have an abundance of acquaintances outside of Herzingen; and Caine’s the only one she can think of who won’t sell her out to the King’s Watch. She needs allies.

Stifling a groan, Cassandra weaves around the scorched shell of a house. Behind it, the destruction flattens out into a cobbled square, singed but otherwise undamaged by the fire. Terraced houses crowd the far side, drippily ornate; curled flourishes of stone twine along the facade, furling into elaborate brackets supporting the eaves; all tarnished by soot. Half the windows have been boarded up; dingy curtains cover the rest.

A few people scuttle by, furtive; paying her no mind as she checks her maps and then hurries across the square to slink into a narrow alley crammed between one row of houses and the next. She whistles a low signal for Owl, relaxing her grip on his jesses, and he takes flight to soar in wide loops overhead. Better than having him on her fist if she’s ambushed in close quarters.

From there, she makes steady downward progress. After a while she gets a feel for the geography of the city; its steep tiers laid out to the rhythm of an architectural tide that crests into crowded buildings and ebbs into barren parks and open squares. Streets spindle into crooked alleyways and icy steps that curl down to the lower tiers. Now and then she spots watchmen on the prowl, their bronzed breastplates gleaming in the cold sunlight, but Maríe’s route seems to detour around the patrol beats. She keeps her distance, and keeps her head down.

The sun crawls steadily to its zenith and has just begun to tip toward the sea when Cassandra steps through the last tangle of buildings between her and the wharf.

It’s empty. The piers carve into the water like ribs picked clean of meat; sheltering a handful of tired grey fishing boats, and one ship—a sleek, twin-masted affair with coppery sails—that must belong to Caine.

She tucks her hands into her cloak as she strolls north along the waterfront. Gulls scream a harsh counterpoint to the rolling surf. One of the piers exudes the stench of fish, and she glimpses the bustle of a fish market between the derelict warehouses as she passes by. Tattered mist curls over the water, shredded by the icy breeze.

Maríe’s map directs her to the northern edge of the harbor, where the cliffs that cradle the city jut out into the water. A series of narrow steps have been cut into the face of the cliff, leading up to a windswept walkway built along its spine; it is, Cassandra thinks as she makes the precarious ascent, an unpleasant place for a rendezvous, but a downright terrible one for an ambush. Unless the plan is to push her over the railing and hope she washes up somewhere convenient for looting her corpse.

The walkway ends in a circular overlook where the cliff drops into the sea; and the statue crouches in the center.

She had assumed, given what the children called it, that the statue would depict a _lady;_ instead it’s a… shape, vaguely animal. Years of wind and rain and ocean spray have whittled away the details, leaving nothing but craggy flanks encrusted with salt and rime. A pair of clawed hands the size of her head grip the pedestal, and its limbs curve upward to hulking shoulders, and a ruptured neck. It would be looking out to sea if it still had a head.

Cassandra studies it for a moment, shivering. Then plants herself on its lee side, lifts her fist for Owl when he comes swooping down to trill his disapproval for her choice of resting places, and settles in to wait for Caine.

And wait.

She left Herzingen without anything but a rage like a slap of cold wind against her face; but the long road to Alcorsīa struck like steel against the flint of her anger and now the kindling of a… plan, or the beginnings of one, smolders in her mind.

_Find Caine. Figure out the black rocks._

She doesn’t want Corona’s forgiveness; she wants them to beg for _hers._ Forgiveness, for every suspicious glare or dubious glance, every sneering insinuation, for hanging their convenient myth of her parents’ evil around her neck and asking her to try, and try, and _try_ to overcome the burden they created; for treating her like something defective and disposable.

Venomous spite coils in her stomach. She’ll claw her way to heroism if she has to, and they’ll _see,_ and they’ll be _sorry,_ and she’ll tell them it won’t ever, ever be enough.

_As if they could ever forgive—_

Caine mounts the steps from the wharf; the movement snaps Cassandra out of her reverie. Distance makes her a small, dark figure with nothing to identify her but the sauntering way she moves, and Cassandra grits her teeth. She’s been trying _not_ to imagine whatever unbearably smug reception the pirate has in store for her, but now—

 _At least we’re alone,_ she thinks, miserable.

Caine’s wearing her saber again, and a long brown coat that flags behind her in the wind. She walks with her hands jammed into her pockets and her shoulders hiked up against the cold, but the winter’s bite hasn’t frozen smugness out of her grin. If anything she looks _more_ pleased with herself than the last time.

The first thing she says is, “Well, that didn’t take long.”

“Can you _not?_ ”

“Ohh, _tsk, tsk_.” Caine slinks against the handrail and simpers, mockingly. “Sensitive, aren’t we? There’s no shame in it, you know. If even _half_ the rumors of what you’ve been up to are true—”

“What rumors?”

“Your wanted posters don’t do you any justice, honey,” she continues, with an innocent blink. “Fred’s little soldier boys have been papering the town with them all week.” Her eyes glitter. “You sure know how to pick a side.”

“I didn’t–” Cassandra shuts her eyes and forces her jaw to unclench. “This is not about _sides!_ ”

“Mm. Sure.” She kicks away from the railing and, with a jerk of her chin, beckons for Cassandra to follow her back toward the wharf. Scowling, Cassandra stomps after her.

“I want to know what the rumors are,” she says.

Caine snickers. “Oh, you know how it is. You steal one book and all of a sudden you’re the people’s hero.”

“ _Caine_ —”

“People think,” Caine says, relenting a little, “that you’re in tight with the Syconium. Andrew’s crowd’s all over the place bragging about converting you, but everyone knows by now it was Sirin calling the shots at Janus Point; and then you broke her out of prison—”

“—I did _not_ —”

“—and the worst blizzard anyone can remember tears through Corona without so much as shaking a leaf south of the Nathair?” A low, suggestive hum. “Draw your own conclusions. On Lady’s Day some of the pious rioted; burned down the constabulary on Nācháth Street.”

“…More like the whole neighborhood.”

Caine rolls her eyes. “Oh, trust me, honey, no one who can afford to live on upper Nācháth is _any_ friend of ours.” She knocks Cassandra’s shoulder with her own before taking the steps down to the wharf two at a time.

Disgruntled, Cassandra mutters, “Who were those children?”

“Maríe’s crew? They’re wharf kids.” A trace of _fondness_ creeps into Caine’s voice; she sighs. “Orphans, most of them; I think Maríe and Edhna are runaways. They den up in one of the old warehouses.”

“But– then who looks after them?”

“We all do,” Caine says, with a vague wave that seems to encompass the whole harbor, and then adds, pointedly, “Better for them to stay where they’re comfortable than get ripped away from everything they know by some well-meaning Coronan. Don’t you think so?”

She smiles the same bladed smile she wore before _Our Country’s Peace,_ and something clenches in the pit of Cassandra’s stomach. Not a dawning horror this time but a feeling like the glint of _knowing_ before she parries and twists her broadsword just so to open her opponent for a good riposte; a sharpening of focus.

“You _knew,_ ” she says, slow. “Not just who my parents were, but- everything, all of it.”

Caine tips her head, a concession, and drawls, “You need a minute, honey?”

“N– I just…” She rubs her thumb along Owl’s jesses, back and forth, back and forth. Why this should feel like such a shock when all the pieces have been _there_ since— “Sirin is my _aunt,_ ” she mumbles. Saying it out loud makes it _set,_ somehow more tangible than before. “And… my parents…”

“Everyone,” Caine says, with less bite than before, “knows what happened to the Hárohams. Come on.”

She gives Cassandra another nudge, and Cassandra, feeling overwhelmed all over again by the enormity of it all, lets herself be guided down the waterfront in a haze; past the piers and warehouses and shabby fishing boats, past the grander ship with the copper sails, and into a labyrinth of derelict old buildings at the other end of the harbor. It’s the kind of place that wouldn’t be allowed to exist in Herzingen; dank and cramped, oozing disrepute.

She has just begun to wonder if Caine lives _here,_ of all places, when Caine pulls them up in front of a filthy brick lump of a building. The sign over the door reads _Záthelapa_ in a barely-legible scrawl.

“…What is this?”

“Best food in the city.”

“People _eat_ here?!”

Snorting, Caine hauls her inside. It looks like a fever dream of the sea; there are nets and shells and fragments of sea glass everywhere, all arranged with chaotic enthusiasm; and the paint sloshing over the walls gives everything an underwater cast. But it’s cleaner than the disgusting facade suggested, and Cassandra swallows her protests as Caine leads her to an empty table near the back, presses her into a seat, and tells her to wait.

The warmth leaking out of the hearth and kitchen peels away the winter’s sting and pours sensation back into her cold-numbed fingers and toes. Owl warbles and fluffs his feathers as she coaxes him onto the back of another chair. She sheds her gloves, her cloak, her scarf; and then hunches into her seat. Every instinct her father drilled into her over the years jangles at her in alarm, because places like _this_ are dens of crime—and buckling against that is the sharp, uncomfortable notion of wanted posters with _her_ face on them. If one of the other patrons were to recognize her…

Then again, Caine is a _pirate;_ Cassandra can’t imagine her frequenting an establishment whose clientele were in the habit of tipping off the guards. Still—

Huffing, Cass massages the half-healed bite on her palm. The scab flaked away a few days ago and left behind a blossoming scar, and now it aches under pressure; grounding. _No one is looking at you. No one cares._

Caine strolls back to their table a few minutes later with two flagons of ale and a small platter, which Cassandra eyes with interest. Thick slabs of bread studded with raisins; butter and a laver spread, pickled cockles and kelp bulbs, hazelnuts and dried red berries she doesn’t recognize—

“Crēzhatē,” Caine says, when Cassandra prods at them curiously. “Henge berries. They’re good.”

They turn out to have a piquancy that makes her eyes water on its own but which pairs well with the cockles, and between the two of them they demolish the platter in short order. When there’s nothing left but crumbs, Caine lounges back in her chair, licking her fingers.

“I was six,” she says. “When the blight came. Didn’t hit Alcorsīa as hard as Artois, but…” She tilts her flagon, studying the watery ale almost meditatively. “I don’t remember much. The smell, mostly. It made the whole city reek of death.

“Mom got it pretty bad. Woke up one morning and that _smell_ was just _…_ Every time she took a breath it’d rattle like a luffing sail.” Something ugly creeps into her face; harsh and bitter as her flagon clanks against the tabletop. “There were rumors about the Princess, miraculous healings, but– nothing ever came of it.”

Caine slouches harder into her chair with violence in her eyes, and Cassandra says nothing. Every sympathetic word she can think of sounds trite.

“She lived,” Caine adds after a moment. “Never… got better, but– your aunt figured out a tonic that keeps it under control. Saved a lot of lives.”

“…O- oh.”

“Point being,” Caine continues, clipped, “yeah, everyone knows her name, and everyone knows what happened to her family. Everyone knows about the stolen Hároham kid and her murdered parents. Get used to it. Corona’s got its Lost Princess; but us? We’ve got _you._ ”

## ❦

“I have to ask,” Cassandra says, later. Záthelapa pours them out into the cold again, much better fed than before, and it’s… fine, to her faint surprise. They had ordered lunch and Caine had shoved the conversation onto the less excruciating subject of Cassandra’s nonexistent seafaring experience, and she’d devoured her smoked eel and its tangy bed of sea moss with relish and it had all been _fine,_ and she doesn’t know how to feel about that. So she has to ask; like digging her nail into an itchy scab. “How’d you pull off impersonating the Duchess?”

Caine barks out a laugh. “Oh, me and Rose go way back. I smuggle books for her; she lets me… borrow her name when I need something with more heft than _Caine._ ”

“So she’s a criminal, too.”

“You’re so _uptight._ ” Caine slings an arm around her neck, ignoring Cassandra’s sardonic glance and the waspish trill from Owl as he’s jostled. “Honey, she’s a Duchess, and a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it.”

“…Do you know what a criminal is.”

“Do you?” Smirking, she breezes on before Cassandra can do more than roll her eyes in exasperation. “Anyway. She passed your letters on to me, I wrote ‘her’ responses…”

Cassandra groans. The _actual_ Rosalia Morcant being in on the whole charade makes her feel just a bit less idiotic for being duped, but it’s no less _mortifying._ “Should’ve just called it a night after the play.”

“I figured you _would,_ ” Caine says dryly. “Spent the whole second act thinking on how to coax you into that vault. Imagine my surprise.”

“Stupid.”

“Just stubborn.”

They emerge from the claustrophobic warren, then, and the wind off the water hits like a slap. Caine, grumbling, veers into it and leads Cassandra in a hurried scramble to the pier where the copper-sailed ship is moored.

It’s nothing like the huge clippers and carracks that crowd Herzingen’s harbor; a slim schooner with a low aftcastle and an even smaller forecastle. The name _Zampermin_ scrolls over the stern in neat white letters; delicate copper filigree brackets the hull in verdigris; and affixed to the prow is a golden… _thing_ , an elegant crest of spiraling curves and serrated edges that might be teeth, if they had a mouth to belong in.

“Yours?” Cassandra drawls as they approach.

“Stole her fair and square,” Caine replies, wry, and sweeps her up the gangplank.

“ _Stole?_ ”

“Mutinied.” She flashes a smug look over her shoulder as she unlocks the door to the great cabin and beckons Cassandra inside. “Tossed the old Captain overboard—he was a pirate, too, don’t give me that _look._ ”

_No honor among thieves, I guess._

She steps inside. Warmth rolls over her, a hazy mystery in the absence of any fire to produce it; rosy light filters through the stained glass in the windows. It isn’t as opulent as Cassandra would’ve imagined based on the luxurious extravagance of pirate ships in stories; there’s a fine rug spread over the floor, and an excessive amount of blankets lying rumpled on the narrow bunk, but the rest is plain and functional. A large desk, a chest of drawers and cabinets all fitted with little bolts to keep them shut despite the gentle rocking of the ship; benches with padded cushions banked against one wall; a rack of gorgeous sabers that sparks a covetous twinge. The lamps fitted to the beams supporting the ceilings are a touch ostentatious, traced with the same copper filigree that cradles the hull. But it’s all very _normal._

“So.” Caine saunters around her, shrugs out of her coat, and sprawls onto the bunk, tucking her arms behind her head and pinning Cassandra with a sharp, sudden curiosity. “You’ve been awful quiet on what prompted… this.”

Right. This part.

“I didn’t… help Sirin escape,” Cassandra mutters, fumbling with the clasp of her cloak. Owl abandons her fist for a more enticing perch in a niche between one of the support beams and the cabin wall, gives her a baleful yellow blink as if to say she had _better_ not disturb him again until nightfall, and tucks himself into sleep without another care in the world; she feels a pang of envy.

“Enlightening.”

“Shut _up._ I just—talked to her.” And left the grate open behind her, now that she thinks about it; so maybe she had, sort of, abetted her aunt’s jailbreak. She grimaces. “I didn’t know she was my _aunt_ until she told me, along with– the rest.”

“And now you’re mad as hell and out for revenge?” Caine says, sounding _inordinately_ hopeful. Cassandra glowers.

“ _No._ ” The bench creaks when she throws herself onto it; she rubs the bridge of her nose, looking anywhere but at Caine. “Well– maybe. Sort of—”

Maybe she _should_ feel angrier. Sometimes she _does;_ and the rage sits like a diamond in her chest, all hard-edged and cutting until she’s sick with it and it lacerates and she _bleeds_ until she’s dry and there’s nothing left but the desiccated veins of her fatigue. And she misses Rapunzel. It’s a constant, throbbing ache.

“Stuff… happened,” she mutters. “With the Princess. Dad decided I should go to the convent in Kongsburg, so—”

“When you say ‘stuff,’” Caine says, “is that a euphemism for—”

“ _No!_ ” Her spluttering just makes the tiny smirk on Caine’s lips deepen into a leer. “Stars, no, why would you even– I’m not- she’s the _Princess!_ ”

“So?”

“ _So—!_ ” So, nothing. Caine snickers, glittering satisfaction, and Cassandra drags a hand down her face. “I snuck her out of Herzingen, if you _must_ know. Nothing hap– stop _laughing!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Caine says, not in the least bit apologetic. She steeples her fingers against her lips, which twitch in a losing battle against their habitual smirk. “Please, continue.”

“I just left,” Cassandra mutters, sullen.

“And came here.”

“And came here.”

“What for?”

Her chin jerks up. “You invited me.”

“Sure. Bu-ut unless you’ve got some burning desire to become a pirate hidden under _all_ those strait laces, honey—”

“I do not.”

“—mmm- _hm._ You want the Separatists? I can put you in touch. Or get you out of the country if that’s your preference.”

“I—”

She falters momentarily, at a loss for where… to even _begin,_ explaining the mess with the black rocks and her anger and her bitter, spiteful need to snatch that triumph from Corona’s jaws. She _wants_ —

In the end, she begins with the post-script she added to her letter on the night she met Varian, and proceeds from there. Caine listens with raised eyebrows, digesting the tale without interruption, until Cassandra reaches a feeble conclusion of, “So– so I want to. Do something.”

Silence; and Caine offers her a poisoned smile. “So,” she drawls, “your grand plan is to save Corona, and rope _me_ into it with you.”

“That’s not—”

“They will _hang you,_ ” Caine snarls, softly, slowly. “If they catch you. They’ll beat you, and laugh at you, and parade you to the _gods-damned_ gallows and leave your corpse hanging to _rot_ until the crows pick it clean, and then they’ll forget about you and you’ll go down in their history books as just one more pathetic Saporian traitor. They— _don’t—care—about—you._ ”

“It’s not about saving Corona—”

“Like _hell_ it isn’t—”

“You don’t _know!_ ” She doesn’t remember standing but she’s on her feet, fists clenched. Fresh anger boils in her stomach and she plunges in to drown in it. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t want, or what I think, or what I should _do,_ I’ve had _enough_ — _!_ ”

It’s for _her._ But her voice breaks. She sways in panting silence. Her fury cracks and bleeds out of her as fast as it flooded in, and though some of the venom drains out of Caine’s hard stare, the seconds stretch taut and quake like a bowstring under pressure.

“Please,” she whispers. “I just– need to.”

Caine drops her head back against the cabin wall and groans. “That still leaves the problem of what the hell you expect me to _do._ I know this is probably hard to grasp but ‘something’ is not a plan.”

She exhales.

“If… if we could get to Herrfeld somehow—”

“The _Zampermin_ can fly,” Caine says.

Which is such a ridiculous thing for her to say that Cassandra blinks hard and collapses back onto her bench. A boneless, startled fall. “Pardon?”

“This ship,” Caine says, like she’s explaining to an inattentive child. “She’s rigged to fly.”

“…What?”

The smirk again. “If we thread between Alcorsīa and Charcāthēn and then sail through Cralóshēm’s Pass we can be in and out of the Anbruch area before—”

“What do you mean your _ship can fly?!_ ”

“Oh, come on, honey, you were the lady-in-waiting to Princess Sundrop, and a simple airship’s too much for you to comprehend?” She stretches out her legs, crossing one over the other, and bounces her eyebrows with the most _infuriatingly_ smug— “It’s magic. Get a grip.”

“Those are two completely different things—”

“Anyway,” Caine continues, all smooth business now, “Herrfeld. Then what?”

“We find Varian.” She rubs her temples and reminds herself, for what feels like the first of _many_ times, that strangling Moira Caine is not going to improve her situation, no matter how tempting it might feel.

“The kid.”

“The _smart_ kid, whose Dad knows something about the source of the rocks. We need information; Varian _thought_ the rocks were searching for Rapunzel– for the sundrop, but when she touched them they chased us all away. It’s got to be something else.”

“Right.”

“So we figure that out—”

“They _are_ connected to the sundrop flower, though, somehow.” Caine sits up. There’s a glint in her eye that Cassandra doesn’t like at _all._ “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then,” Caine says, making a grand show of examining her fingernails, “We’ll have to make a detour on our way to Herrfeld. Shouldn’t take long—”

“What for,” Cassandra says, flat.

“They found the sundrop flower in the southern Pingoras,” she says, with a gleeful grin bordering on the sadistic. “Just a few miles northeast of—”

“No.”

“—Socona, in fact.”

“ _No._ ”

“We should take a look,” Caine purrs. “I heard Freddy put some gaudy little plaque up there to mark the exact spot; it should’t be hard to find.”

 _No,_ Cassandra wants to scream. _No, no, no, we are_ not _going to Socona._ She’s not ready to– she doesn’t _want_ — the thought of going back makes her throat freeze over with an icy fear.

But Caine– does have a point, even if she only made it so she could revel in Cassandra’s discomfort. If the rocks really do have something to do with the sundrop, then…

She shuts her eyes, and whispers, “Fine.”


	24. Chapter 23: The Atrocity of Sunsets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *steeples fingers* Well.
> 
> CW: Injuries, blood, mild gore, minor character death, and implied self harm. _Nobody_ is having a good time tonight, folks.

###  **Chapter 23: The Atrocity of Sunsets**

Shards of a restless dream keep her up half the night. Every time she jolts awake, the rigid confines of the berthing seem to press in closer, and the broken dream lies in glittering fragments in her thought; like splintered glass in beds of dust.

When she wakes in the morning, sore from tossing on the unforgiving bunk, she doesn’t remember anything but a crabbed, cramped feeling of dread. And a vague nausea, which sticks to her ribs while she slithers out of the berthing. She wobbles up the ladder to the main deck and stands blinking in the jaws of the sunrise. The _Zampermin_ yaws sedately. Sunlight washes the morning clean.

She breathes in.

Sailors swarm over the deck. Two burly, red-headed women hoist barrels up the gangplank and hand them off to a gawky man with a pockmarked, ratlike face. He rolls them across the deck to a third woman, who slings them down into the darkness of the cargo hold. Two more sailors scuttle about, checking the lines under the watchful eye of a greasy-looking scarecrow of a man.

Caine is at the helm, absorbed in conversation with another pair of sailors. One’s swaddled head-to-toe against the cold, with nothing but his protuberant eyes and a thin slice of sun-browned flesh peeking out; the other is a massive woman whose long red coat drowns in so much flourish and frill it could win around against the gilded ladies of Herzingen’s court.

“—but if there’s been rioting in Charcāthēn it’s news to me,” Caine is saying, in clipped Saporian, when Cassandra mounts the stairs to the aft deck. “Shortages aside—”

“It’s kindling all over,” says the swaddled sailor, his voice butter-smooth. He slouches against the helm, arms folded. “Ghéril said the Śaedhíhran barrow’s been a-rattle ever since Tároshdhan—”

“Oh, who ever knows what the boneheads get up to?” Caine says testily.

“Sitheach might have some idea.”

“Well, it’s _inconvenient_. If they’re gonna be _pissy_ whenever the Syconium breathes—” They notice her hovering at the top of the stairs then, and without missing a beat, Caine drawls, “Sleep well, honey?”

“Fine.”

“And you must be Cassandra,” the giant woman booms. She beams—jovial, lips tugged crooked by the brutal slash of a scar down her cheek—and sticks out a hand. “Name’s Sahane Mosel; I’m the pilot in these parts.”

“Uh–”

Mosel pumps her arm with jostling enthusiasm and Caine grins like a shark. “She’s taking us out with the next tide,” she says. “Then we’ll bounce, swing around Alcorsīa. Should be in Socona by noon.”

Her stomach tightens. “Th- that soon?”

“Wind’s favorable,” Caine says blandly. “Anyway– Cassandra—” She jerks a thumb at the other sailor. “This is Renard, our helmsman. And—”

She takes Cassandra by the shoulder and spins her around, leaning them both over the railing. “Pocket’s first mate,” she says breezily, pointing. The scarecrow; beaky-nosed and sallow, he lifts an oiled smile toward them. “That’s Sitheach on the ratlines—they’re second. Big guy’s Otter, scrawny one’s Tirian—that’s Sobēl and Helcha Lachaīs on the docks, they’re twins—and Mael, there, she’s our bosun. And Elis’s down in the hold. He cooks.”

A hasty scramble to pin faces to names: Sitheach, long and lean, their face all sharp edges cut from bronze; Otter, sleepy-eyed and stout, black hair foaming out of a knit cap; Tirian, shrewd-eyed; Sobēl and Helcha, both big and freckly, one grizzled and the other plump; Mael, a tall black woman built like a warhorse, with a rapier on her hip; and Elis, nothing but a pair of pale hands reaching up to catch the barrels Mael lowers into the hold. Cassandra nods along in harried determination. She’ll take all of this in stride, she _won’t_ lose her footing, she—

“Mael!”

“Yeah, Cap?”

“You want an extra pair of hands for the gasbags?”

“Could do.” Mael tosses another barrel down to Elis and stretches her way upright again, shaking tension out of her arms with a low grunt. She gives Cassandra a quick, critical glance. “Yeah, come on down.”

Caine thumps her on the back. “You heard the lady.”

“Gasbags?” Cassandra mutters, but she goes, trotting down the steps and across the deck to join Mael by the cargo hatch.

“Right,” Mael says briskly. “Helcha, you can drop the last few—Cassandra, with me.”

She leads Cassandra towards the bow, down through another hatch, and then along the narrow passageway of the cabin. Over her shoulder, she says, “Ever been airborne before?”

“Nope.”

“ _Heh._ Well.” Mael ducks through the door at the fore of the cabin, and Cassandra squeezes in after her. It’s a tight, triangular compartment, with nothing but a pair of ports the size of her fist for light. “ _Zampermin’s_ got three gasbags, one on each side going stem to stern and one down the keel.”

She crouches forward, working her fingers behind a panel; it lifts away from the rest of the bulkhead and rolls aside to reveal a hollow chamber of about the width and depth of Cassandra’s forearm. There’s three brass valves inside, two affixed to the bulkheads and one to the deck, each with its own array of little dials and switches. She stares, baffled.

“So here’s where we pump the bags,” Mael says. “Big dial reads out pressure inside the bag—” she taps one, its long black needle idling at zero “—and for the pump we aim to hit this sweet spot here, in red. Smaller dial reads out the bag’s expansion. We want this one at ninety-five percent for the pump; if it’s lower but pressure is in the sweet spot,there’s a pinch and we’ll need to ease the bag.” She catches Cassandra’s blank expression. “Means we go down stem to stern and open it up by hand.”

“…Right.”

“Canisters,” Mael continues, laying a hand against Cassandra’s shoulder and turning her as much around as is possible in the tight confines of the compartment, “in the locker. Open it up—it slides right.”

After a brief fumble, she gets the locker open and peers into the yawning interior; a long, shadowy compartment, with—she does a quick count—eighteen fat canisters lined up in a rack like bronze teeth.

“Rack’s belted,” Mael says. “You pull the first canister, hook it up, pop the nozzle—once it’s empty, slot it back in and turn the winch—there, see?—to bring out the next one. Six cans to a bag. We fill the lateral bags together, so you’ll be handling two cans at once; then we can swap for the keel so you can learn the dials.”

The canisters are waist-high and have the girth of a small child; Cassandra tries to imagine squeezing a pair of them into the compartment with herself and Mael, and winces. “And this makes the ship… fly?”

Mael chortles. “It makes her lighter. She sits higher and runs faster in the water, and it compensates for the weight of her hull and cargo in the air. But, no—the _Zampermin’s_ not a balloon. She sails. You’ll see. Now—get to it.”

Bracing herself against the bulkhead, Cassandra wrestles out the first pair of canisters and follows along while Mael shows her how to screw their long, rubbery nozzles into the valves. It’s cramped work, but not difficult, as all she really has to do is hold the cans steady and listen to the quiet _hiss_ of flowing gas.

Mael fiddles with the valves for a moment, then settles back with a satisfied hum and says, “You any good with that broadsword?”

“Wouldn’t carry a weapon I couldn’t handle.”

Her bristling meets with a low chuckle, and, “I’m sure. We’ll have to spar sometime.” Mael tips her head back against the bulkhead, twiddling one of her long, thin dreadlocks between her fingers, cocky. “Got my start in the pits.”

“The… pits?”

“Fighting ring,” she says, brows quirking. “It’s all very illegal, obviously. But decent money if you’re any good with a blade. Which I am.”

Her grin is very bright, and very sharp, and when she glances at the dials again, it leaves Cassandra with the unsettling feeling that this is, in some way, a test. For the Commander’s daughter, come so far away from home.

She swallows. “How did you…?”

Mael shrugs. “You do what it takes to survive. I got myself out when the Hvassjarn War started– I was seventeen but tall enough to pass for older. Thought a tour with the Ingvarran navy might do me better than brawling in the pits. Came back a few years later with nothing to show for it but frostbite and a bloodied uniform; so to hell with the whole peninsula.”

“How’d you end up—” She grapples for the politest phrasing for _becoming a pirate,_ and settles feebly on, “—uh, here?”

“Caine knocked me on my ass in a bar-fight,” Mael says bluntly, leaning over the canisters to adjust one of the valves. “There’s not many who can do _that_ — so we got to talking, afterwards, she mentioned being in need of a bosun, I told her I’d been in the navy… Serendipitous, you know?”

“A bar-fight.”

“Not as exciting as yours, I know,” Mael says,with a rich chuckle when Cassandra splutters. “Well, that was about two years back. Been with the _Zampermin_ since.”

“You like it?” Cassandra mumbles.

“She’s a beautiful ship. There’s not many like her left these days, more’s the pity.” She sighs, all fondness and forlorn; and taps a fingernail against the dials. “Pirating’s not a bad life, either. Caine runs a tidy operation.”

“Tidy?”

“She’s got standards. Important in a captain in this line of work. Merchant vessels flying the colors of the Seven Kingdoms, and we go after the prison barges on the Lost Sea. We keep our noses clean and our heads down otherwise.”

“And smuggling books for the Duchess of Quintonia,” Cassandra says, before she can stop herself. Mael guffaws.

“Yeah, and that. Caine’s got such interesting friends.”

She shoots Cassandra another grin and a wink, then lets the conversation lapse into comfortable silence. For a while the only sounds are waves slopping against the hull and the steady hiss of gas, punctuated by the fumbling clanking and thuds and muttered curses when the canisters empty and Cassandra swaps them out. Cassandra surprises herself by enjoying it. There’s something straightforward and undemanding about Mael’s silent company.

They’re on the fourth set of cans for the lateral bags when the raw-boned second mate—Sitheach—ducks their head into the crowded compartment and says, “Good up?”

“Laterals at seventy,” Mael replies breezily. “We casting off?”

“Ayup.” Sitheach glances her way. Their eyes are flat and grey, like chipped slate, and sunk deep in their sockets. “How’s the new blood?”

“She’s fine,” Cassandra says curtly, which makes them smirk.

“Lay up when you’re done here,” Sitheach says. “You’ll get a kick out of the bounce. Everyone does, the first time.”

“Some of us get a kick every time, you joyless knucklebone—” But they’re already gone. Mael rolls her eyes. “Prick. Right, well, that’s about a half hour til your first flight. You keen?”

“…I’m… I guess so.” When she crawled into her bunk last night, she’d been half-convinced the whole _flying ship_ thing was Caine just messing with her, but these matter-of-fact preparations have eroded her skepticism into plain curiosity.

“Nervous?”

“Maybe.”

Chuckling, Mael reaches around the cans to give her a solid jostling. “You’ll do great.”

## ❦

Half an hour streams by and ends with a resounding _plonk_ when Mael slams the eighteenth canister into its slot. Mael lopes straight up the main deck; Cassandra trails after her, stretching the crouching stiffness out of her shoulders as she goes. Trepidation prickles under her skin, and a toothy suspense.

They’re well out from the coast now, with Alcorsīa nothing but a ramshackle slump of ash-grey against the stark blackcliffs. A harsh wind cuts across the deck, snapping at the _Zampermin’s_ copper sails and scouring her mouth with the taste of ice and salt. Most of the crew are busy doing… something with the lines, a swift dance of rope and rigging. Caine’s still on the aft deck, lounging against the rail with her wrists dangling. As Cassandra threads a path over the deck to join her, Caine catches her eye and grins languidly.

“Should I be– can I help?” Cassandra mutters as she mounts the stairs to the aft deck.

“Aw, honey.” Caine straightens up and slings an arm around her shoulders, ignoring Cassandra’s squawk of protest. “Plenty of time for that later. It’s your first time. Enjoy the show.”

She tries to. The _Zampermin_ swings ponderously south, and the sails swell before the wind while Caine hums under her breath. Pocket props himself against the main-mast, hands tucked deep in his oversized green coat, and, slowly, the rest of the crew take up stationary positions, scattered over the deck.

Behind them, Renard calls, “Ready to trim, Captain!”

“Bring ’em down, Pocket!”

The first mate reaches down and, with a grunt and a heave, lifts an enormous lever affixed to the base of the mast. It flips into place with a ponderous _thunk,_ and Pocket bellows, “Mast’s on! Trim down and brace—”

Lines snap tight from one end of the ship to the other, and the masts unfurl like flower buds blossoming. Delicate petals of timber and brass fan out on spindling struts of copper. Cassandra gasps as sunlight slinks along the fine-spun machinery and irradiates it with molten light; the sails flag wildly. There’s a cacophonous rattle of canvas, a jangle of rigging—the masts coil smoothly down, folding into a pair of branching arches that support the sails in a rippling dome overhead.

It’s over in ten seconds. Pocket slams the lever down, and as the sails fill again, the ship judders forward and _up_ —

A wave smacks the bottom of the hull, and Caine laughs, gripping her shoulder harder, while she clutches the railing and the ship skitters over the water like a skipped stone.

The prow lifts; and the _Zampermin_ glides higher, heeling gently in the swell of the wind. An opalescent shimmer gilds the air. Sunlight glosses the receding waves. Cassandra digs her fingernails into the lacquered wood of the railing, rigid with awe, as the breath she’s been holding trickles slowly free.

The ship is _flying._

It _flies._

The _Zampermin_ carves up the wind, tacking east to sail over—over!—the coast. Cassandra breathes in, and out, and in again, wondering inanely if this is how Eugene felt when Rapunzel walloped him in the tower. _She_ certainly feels like she’s been hit upside the head with a frying pan.

“Ah–”

“Take your time,” Caine purrs. She props an elbow against the rail, cradling her chin in her palm, and smirks up through her lashes. Cassandra tries to scowl and fails, spectacularly.

“You’re awful.”

“I’m a pirate. Comes with the territory.” Her smirk deepens. She straightens up, knocking her shoulder against Cassandra’s, and strolls away from the railing. “Now, come on. Can’t stand here gawking all the way to Socona.”

## ❦

It takes all morning to get to Socona, and after a hasty breakfast of bread and jam and more salmon jerky than anyone really needed, Cassandra spends the better part of it holed up in the great cabin with Owl. She rigged up a makeshift perch for him there, yesterday afternoon, and left him reluctantly to spend the night with Caine, knowing he’d be more comfortable there than in the tight confines of the crew cabin. He greets her entrance with a sullen, curmudgeonly hoot, but an offering of fresh, raw meat from the galley mollifies him fast.

“It’s been… a _day,_ Owl,” she sighs, while he shreds his meal with predatory glee. “…Just, a whole month of _days._ ”

The meat squelches. A ligament stretches and snaps in his beak. He blinks at her, looking as placidly content as an owl can. Her lips twitch.

“Well, as long as you’re happy.”

Around eleven o’clock, she leashes him to his perch again and skulks down to the galley with hunger and nerves curdling together in her belly.

“Your bird like the meat?” Elis asks, the moment he sees her. He speaks Saporian with a harshly serrated accent she had managed to identify, by way of a few awkward questions, as Equisian; it takes her a beat too long to work out the question.

“Yes,” she replies, belated, adding in an apologetic smile that Elis waves away with a flap of his stubby hand. “Loved it, thanks.”

He beams. “We have jelhiinkas for lunch,” he says, plopping– what appears to be a plump roll of bread onto a plate and passing it to her. Steam curls gently off it. “It is like herring pie, but fried—”

“They’re mad for frying things in Equis,” Mael mutters out of the corner of her mouth. Grinning, Cassandra tucks herself into the bench next to her.

“It’s good for the stomach!”

“For the tongue, maybe,” drawls one of the Lachaīs sisters, to rolled eyes from the other. She toasts Cassandra over the table with what’s left of hers, winking. “—What was I saying?”

“You’d just been kicked out a window.”

“Right, right, yes, so I slide down the roof and land—”

“—drunkenly—”

“—drop very drunkenly into the yard, yes, Helcha, thank you for your contribution— and old Cadogan’s _howling_ upstairs, so I—”

“—not under formal auspices, if so,” Sitheach is saying to Caine at the other end of the table, in a dry, polished voice. “But Maeriedh does get a little antsy in the wintertime, and it _is_ Sicáraen—”

No one’s interested in cajoling her into conversation, which suits Cassandra fine. She tries a bite of the jelhiinka, chokes a little over the unexpected _saltiness_ of the crust, and recovers on the next bite; the chatter washes over her in a pleasant, faintly puzzling stream. She tries not to remember the fact that they’ll be in Socona in an hour.

 _Home–_ is _it home? I don’t—_

The only thing she remembers is that damned silo, crimson against a silver sky. Mud and hungry crows.

Part of her wants to look for it.

The rest wants to run, screaming, and never look back.

_Stop thinking about it._

If what Caine said while they haggled over the details yesterday is true, they won’t even set foot in the village itself. There’s a lake a mile and a half a mile south where they’ll bring the _Zampermin_ down, and they can skirt around Socona to get to the footpath that will lead them to the place where the sundrop grew. Cassandra made her disinterest in visiting her– her place of birth crystal clear. They’ll be in and out again in a matter of hours.

Because things have gone _so well_ for her in the past month. Cassandra rips into the heart of her pie and chews furiously.

## ❦

The _Zampermin_ tosses up glittering crests of water as she slices into the lake, and as she drifts into stillness and the crew furls the sails, Cassandra stares grimly up the shore. Barren aspens, frozen mud and dustings of snow. The cold is sharper here than it was in Alcorsīa. A desiccated chill.

“Here.”

The word is accompanied by a tattered red scarf, which Caine tosses over her shoulder with little ceremony. Cassandra plucks at its fraying corner, puzzled. “…Thanks…?”

Caine rolls her eyes. “For your face, idiot. Cover it.”

Because she’s wanted. Right. And if she were in her father’s shoes, looking for herself, Socona is the obvious… first place to check.

The coarse wool scratches as she winds the scarf around the lower half of her face. Sighing, Cassandra pulls her cowl over her curls and spends a moment tucking everything away until there’s nothing exposed but her eyes.

“Happy?” she asks when she’s finished.

“Ecstatic,” Caine drawls. “Get in the boat.”

“I’ll row.” Anything to work the jitters out of her stomach. Caine lifts an eyebrow at this declaration, but shrugs and doesn’t argue.

It’s… quiet, once they’ve lowered the rowboat into the water and pushed away from the ship. The oars slosh, and the boat creaks, and Caine stares dourly past Cassandra’s shoulder, silent.

She’s on the verge of asking Caine what her problem is when the pirate stiffens, her expression flashing from sullen to furious. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake—”

“What? What is it?”

“Just keep rowing.” Caine pinches the bridge of her nose, inhales deeply, and then lifts her head with a glassy smile. “Looks like _auntie’s_ come to welcome us ashore.”

“ _What—_ ”

The rowboat bumps into the shore a moment later, and Caine boils out of it. “Sirin! Well this is certainly… a surprise.”

“Moira.” Sirin, curt. Cassandra tugs the oars free of the oarlocks and lays them out, trying to remember how to breathe. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, certainly not to enjoy your hospitality.”

“ _You_ aren’t—”

“Cassandra,” Caine snarls through clenched teeth, “why don’t you get up and say _hello._ ”

There is a very pregnant pause.

She clambers out of the rowboat, irately tugging Caine’s terrible scarf away from her face. Gritty pebbles and frost crunch beneath her boots, and she stamps her feet a few times before she works up the nerve to look her… aunt… in the face.

The bruises have faded to echoes of pale yellow and green, ringing her eye and pattering down the side of her jaw. She looks stricken, and Cassandra finds she can’t hold her gaze.

“Hi,” she mumbles to her boots instead.

“…Cassandra. I–”

“Cassandra has a project,” Caine chirps, draping an arm around Cassandra’s shoulders. She lets her weight sag against Cassandra, listing them both to one side. “Care to share, honey?”

 _I am,_ Cassandra thinks, _a good person. I do_ not _deserve this._

But she opens her mouth and the explanation falls out, piece by stilted piece. The animosity between Sirin and Caine coagulates into a palpable tension that makes her stomach churn, but neither of them interrupt.

When she’s finished, Sirin sighs. “Black rocks. I–” Her fingers twitch, and crawl up to grip the tarnished clasp of her cloak. “The King’s soldiers established a garrison in Socona a week and a half ago—”

“What soldiers?”

Sirin ignores this. “If they saw _your_ ship—” she shoots Caine a venomous glare “—make landing, as is likely, they will be dispatching a patrol to investigate as we speak.”

“My crew can handle—”

“Your _crew_ is not my concern,” Sirin says tersely.

Something passes between them. A nerve in Caine’s jaw twitches; she sighs, exasperated. “Look, we’re not here to cause a massacre,” she snaps. “If it’s protection you’re after—”

“A touch of _responsibility_ for your own—”

“—just _ask,_ ” Caine says, low. “Lady’s _teeth,_ Sirin, I am _on your side._ ”

They glower at each other. Two rictuses of hostility and old anger; Cassandra wonders dismally whether Caine planned to ever mention she had some sort of _history_ with Sirin or if she’d intended to go on letting Cassandra think she knew her aunt by reputation alone.

“How many blades?” Sirin whispers.

“Ten,” Caine says at once. “Eleven with Cassandra, but—”

“Ten.” Sirin shuts her eyes, her face drawing taut. She appears to be thinking very hard. When she opens them again, they’re full of steel. “If you can guarantee those numbers tonight—”

“I can.”

“—the Syconium is ready for open revolt. The timing is less than ideal, but we _can_ hold the line if we break the garrison tonight.”

“…Hold on—”

Caine sneers. “You? _Ready?_ ”

“— _revolt?!_ ”

A bleak little smile touches Sirin’s face. “We had hoped to delay until midwinter,” she says quietly, trace apology in her eyes when she glances Cassandra’s way. “Did you think Janus Point was the end of it?”

She hoped the Demanitus Chamber would be. And in the wake of her sinking heart, the disparate flotsam of every shattering revelation she’s endured these last few weeks and the _reality_ of Janus Point and what came after coheres together and it hits her, for the first time, that Sirin— that her _aunt_ — worships Zhan Tiri.

 _Of course she does, you_ knew—

She knew. But she picked those two threads of _knowing_ apart, meticulously; and now as they twine together again cold surprise robs the breath from her lungs.

“…Cassandra…” Sirin reaches for her; then seems to think better of it and cradles her arm against her chest, flexing her fingers fretfully. “This is… complicated, for you, I know. But there is– there is a limit to what can be endured. We are _dying_ —”

Her voice snaps like a brittle bone.

_There is a reckoning on its way that cannot be stopped, cannot be turned aside._

_We have been pushed too far._

Sirin recovers her composure with a tiny gasp, and continues in a quick, strained whisper. “You do not have to participate. No one will ask that of you. But there _will_ be blood spilt tonight, one way or another. Theirs or ours.”

“Theirs,” Caine mutters.

Cassandra looks away from both of them, following the gradual curve of the lake shore. Caine’s arm stays locked around her shoulder. Her eyes feel hot. Poison drips into her stomach, a slow, slow torture.

At length Sirin murmurs, “I give it twenty minutes before the patrol arrives. It… may be best if—”

“We could make it to the plinth and back again by nightfall,” Caine says. “Two birds…”

“Cassandra, are–”

“Don’t.” The word flinches out, and Cassandra lifts her chin, hating this, hating _them;_ hating herself, for getting herself into this nightmare in the first place. “Just– don’t.” Belatedly, she twists out of Caine’s grip, shakes out her cloak. _Deep breath._ “Let’s go.”

She storms away. Behind her, Caine mutters, “Catch my crew up, yeah?” before jogging after Cassandra and reorienting her, delicately, in the correct direction.

## ❦

They have been walking for maybe half an hour when the cold rage brewing in her chest finally cracks.

“You did this on _purpose._ ”

“…Huh?”

“Coming here was _your_ idea,” Cassandra seethes, her head full of the malicious glint that had sparked in Caine’s eyes when she made the suggestion yesterday. “You knew _she’d_ be here, you _knew_ what would happen, you–”

“While I’m flattered you think I know everything,” Caine drawls, “honey, I _don’t._ I hadn’t heard they put a garrison here; I sure as hell didn’t think Sirin would—”

“And you know _her!_ ”

Daggers flash in Caine’s eyes. “You knew what you were getting yourself into,” she says, every word oil-slickand dangerous. “Or you should have. Only reason I’m not a Separatist is they don’t go _far_ enough.”

“Oh, don’t try to pin this on _me_ —”

“You stole the Journal,” Caine snarls. “You turned down the chance to give it _back._ You went to Sirin, you lied to save your skin, _you_ came to _me_ when they tossed you out, you’re not one of _them,_ you’re Saporian to the _bone_ and you _—”_

“I _know!_ ”

She _means_ to lunge at Caine and pound her fist into the pirate’s _teeth;_ when she moves it’s with violence howling in her veins. But she misses a step or the rage gutters out in its puddles of wax and Cassandra takes one staggering step forward and sticks there, curling in on herself. She feels like glass about to shatter, like—

There’s a sob lurking in the pit of her stomach, and Cassandra heaves it up in a single ugly, violent gasp; and Caine mutters, “…Oh. Oh, hey–”

Cassandra sputters; eyes dry, a tearing feeling in her chest. When Caine cups the back of her neck and tugs her closer, she goes without resistance.

It isn’t quite a hug. Quaking, she drops her forehead onto Caine’s shoulder, and Caine’s hand lingers on her neck; her breath puffs warm against Cassandra’s hair.

“Sit this one out,” Caine says, quiet. “No one will think less of you. Just… stay on the _Zampermin._ ”

“But that’s _worse,_ ” Cassandra mumbles wretchedly.

“…W- worse…?”

Fur lines the collar of Caine’s coat, soft bristles tickling her cheek, and she tries to focus on that to the exclusion of everything else. “Doing n- nothing.” A shuddery breath. “I ignored so _much._ I- I– I want to do better—”

“Oh, hell– honey, you don’t have to _prove_ anything—”

“It’s not about– proving—!” She wriggles out of Caine’s hold, swiping at her cheeks—but her eyes are dry, they’re dry, they’re– She is not somebody who cries. Another breath, percussive. “I can’t just– _sit._ I don’t want to—but I can’t… If there has to be a fight I need to be there.”

Caine stares at her for a long, inscrutable moment, while Cassandra lifts her chin in ragged defiance.

“Sirin,” Caine sighs at last, “is going to _murder_ me. Come on, idiot, let’s find your flower.”

“It’s a plinth. Idiot.”

She sniffs; Caine cracks a smile. The powdery snow resumes its gentle susurrus as they begin to walk again, through the skeletal aspens.

“What’s her problem with you, anyway?”

Caine’s shoulders hitch up a fraction; so slight that Cassandra’s half sure she imagined it, until Caine says, too brusquely, “Maybe she’s just a bitch.”

“Caine.”

“It’s complicated.”

“If you don’t want to share—”

“No, it–” Groaning, Caine pushes her hair out of her face. “She had kids, alright?”

“…Okay…?”

“And they—” The words scatter, and Caine scowls, kicks at the snow, and at last mutters, “My Aunt Neasa’s really pious. Not Corona’s Sunlit bullshit—the Ternary. Real gods. Char Malách, Cathay, and—”

“—Zhan Tiri,” Cassandra murmurs.

“Right. You’ve worked out that Sirin is—”

“Yeah.”

“Grand,” Caine says waspishly. “Well, Neasa’d bring me along to henge holidays, and Sirin brought her kids, so we all sort of knew each other. Cornaīn was my age, Tath a few years older. We weren’t… close, but we got on well.

“Anyway, Tath was… sick. From the crop blight; like my Mom. She just never really got better, and… about four years ago she caught some other– and she was already so fragile it— well. She died.” She lapses into brooding silence for a moment, her boots scuffing through the snow. “Cornaīn came down to Alcorsīa, after. Meant to join up with the Separatists, but we bumped into each other and ended up on the _Zampermin_ together instead. The Captain treated his crew like dirt, so we tossed him—” a grin flits over her lips “—and I took over. She was my first mate. Sirin didn’t like it– didn’t want Cornaīn putting herself in danger, but…”

She knows, she knows, she _knows_ , but she asks anyway.

“What happened?”

“Cornaīn loved the sea,” Caine mutters, in a voice eroded down to the bedrock. She clears her throat. “Last year—”

_Oh, stars._

“—we hit one of the prison barges. And it- it didn’t even go _bad._ We won. We got people out. But– sometimes things just…”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, feeling sick.

“Sirin.” Caine pauses, for a very long time, and Cassandra’s imagination fills in the gap in grotesque detail. “Did not take it well. All things considered– that—” Jerkily, she waves a hand back in the direction of the lake. “—was… an improvement. Progress. Some…thing.”

She slouches into silence, and Cassandra lets it settle over them. They walk and it crawls along with them, gathering like thunderclouds, smothering and heavy.

“She would’ve been glad you got out,” Caine says abruptly, several minutes later. She shoves her hands into her pockets, hiking up her shoulders; against the cold or the memories or— “Cornaīn. She was always talking about you. Hoping you were happy. Thinking up ways to get in touch without putting you in danger– and then. Worrying you wouldn’t want…”

 _I don’t think I would have._ And coiled around that thought is another cold vein of anger, wordless, voiceless.

She had cousins.

She could have had _sisters._

But she didn’t.

## ❦

They reach the plinth after about two hours of brisk hiking. Cassandra, with her head still festering in resentment and loss, can’t dredge up the interest to do more than stare at it, sullen. Caine scoffs.

“Well, _well,_ ” she drawls. “Look at that. I was right.”

She kicks one of the black rocks clustered around the crumbling base of the plinth. It thrums with a mournful, hollow note that curls into the breeze and fades away.

“This doesn’t tell us _anything,_ ” Cassandra grumbles. “These could’ve been here for years or hours, for all we know. It’s just a _stupid_ —”

The rocks have grown through the plinth, too, splitting it into crooked halves. Most of the plaque is still legible on one side: _Here grew the miracle flower that healed—_

Cassandra kicks at it too. It doesn’t make her feel any better. “What a waste of time.”

“Oh, is that a, ‘Maybe we _shouldn’t_ go to a Coronan village to kidnap some Coronan kid because it’s a terrible idea after all’ I hear?”

“Kidn— _no!_ ” She plants a solid shove into Caine’s shoulder, and the pirate sways with it, smirking. “We’re still going to find Varian,” she insists. Caine rolls her eyes. “If only because if the black rocks are here, what happened to Herrfeld could happen to Socona, too. This is not just a Corona problem.”

Then the _rest_ of what Caine just said catches up with her mind, and her eyes narrow.

“…Did you suggest this detour to convince me the whole thing was pointless?”

“I was hoping,” Caine says, unabashed, “yeah.” She swivels Cassandra around, and Cassandra allows herself to be escorted back onto the footpath that brought them here. “You know the second we sail an _airship_ over Herrfeld we’re going to be up to our eyeballs in guards? The _Zampermin_ isn’t what you’d call low profile.”

“You said we could be in and out before anyone noticed.”

“Yeah. I _lied_. I was letting you down gently.”

“You haven’t got a gentle bone in your body.”

“Oho, honey, I can be _gentle._ ” She simpers, reaching up to twist one of Cassandra’s curls around her finger, and Cassandra swats her hand away with a roll of her eyes. “Look– if, _after_ tonight, you still want to nab the kid, I’ll take you to Herrfeld. But you’ve got to know what you’re in for, first.”

“I’ve been in fights before.”

“Nn-nn. Not like this, honey, you haven’t.”

Cassandra jerks away when Caine reaches for her shoulder, stalking ahead down the path. Anger suppurates in her heart, weeping pus into her veins; and she is sick to _death_ of being lied to. It gathers in her chest, fervent and fevered. A putrid storm caged between her ribs.

Caine makes several attempts to rekindle a conversation, during the long trek back to the _Zampermin,_ but Cassandra ignores her. The oozing fury clogs her throat, and she couldn’t speak even if she cared to.

By the time they return to the lakeshore she’s drowning in it. Caine’s crew have all disembarked, and they’re crouched in the scant shelter of the aspen trees with Sirin and a willowy man who looks like he’s having almost as awful a day as Cassandra is.

He’s the first to see them coming. His yellowish eyes spark interest, and he leans down to murmur something to Sirin, who glances up sharply as they approach.

“Cassandra—”

“I’m coming.” Defiance festers in every syllable. Sirin blanches, and Cassandra lifts her chin and glares back. _Say no. Say no. I_ dare _you._

“…Then that– makes us thirteen,” Sirin says, sounding a little strangled. She beckons for Cassandra to join the loose circle she and the crew have made, and Cassandra, blinking, obeys. It feels like a missed stair. “The garrison sent four men to investigate the ship, and with those—” she coughs “—dealt with, we estimate that about twenty-six remain in the village.”

There’s a large map of Socona and its surrounding areas rolled out on the frozen ground between them. Sirin taps a large square at the nexus of the village.

“They’re housed in the old constabulary, here.”

“Five of them are the old guard,” the willowy man says. “The rest came with Captain Falke after, well…”

His thin fingers flick delicately in her direction. Cassandra stiffens, and Sirin mutters a sharp, “ _Mathan._ ”

“—They post guards here, here, and here, and here,” Mathan says, dropping his hand to the map with a quickness and splaying his fingers to mark every post. “Patrols, after nightfall, along here, and here.” Two lines, a cross traced through the heart of the village.

“There are two men at every post, and two for each patrol.” Sirin crosses her arms over her knees. “Paired off we have the numbers to take them all at once. If we are quick and quiet—”

“We can almost halve their numbers before they know what’s hit them,” Caine mutters. She crouches beside Cassandra, rubbing her chin as her gaze roves over the map. “Assuming you can get us into position to hit the patrols before we take out the guards.”

“With Sitheach, Mathan and I can.”

“Need a fourth?”

Sirin smiles, grim. “No. No, not for this.”

“Once they’re down, I can do two,” Sitheach says. They lace their fingers together behind their neck, pensive. “Maybe three, if I push it.”

“We’ll count on two,” Sirin says. “Which makes us fifteen and gives us the advantage of numbers for the constabulary.”

“Numbers don’t matter if we barricade it up and toss a cocktail through the window,” Caine drawls. “Helcha’s good with fire—”

“No.” Sirin’s voice cuts smooth across Cassandra’s startled, inarticulate protest. “They’ve been pulling people in for interrogations—”

“—and not everyone returns,” Mathan finishes, terse. “We cannot rule out the possibility of hostages inside; thus—”

“Ah.”

“So we fight,” Sirin says, in a voice no louder than the breeze creaking through the branches of the aspen trees, “mercilessly. And pray the morning still comes.”

## ❦

Plans chase each other round and round until long after the sun burns down into charcoal blackness. When the light fails they retreat to the _Zampermin_ and crowd into the galley instead, where Elis feeds them in preparation for the fight to come.

Her anger pops like a swollen blister and drains away, leaving a flaccid skein of anxiety behind. Cassandra picks at her food in uncomfortable silence while Sirin and Mael debate the advantages of making a stand in one of the constabulary’s tight corridors rather than trying to push through to the barracks, and tries to look like she isn’t already having second thoughts.

Midnight arrives with nauseating swiftness. The walk to the village passes in a haze of shadows and trees and Caine, keeping perfect step beside her. Her chest feels tight.

Thirteen. And they scatter into the darkness as the village draws near; Sirin slipping away through the trees with Mathan and Sitheach lithe shadows at her heels, and the rest in pairs. Cassandra shivers as she matches Caine’s quick prowl around Socona’s outskirts.

“Listen,” Caine says in an undertone Cassandra has to strain to hear, even this close, “just… stay close to me, alright?” The shadows of her cowl obscure her face, but Cassandra can still feel the intensity of her gaze; like a press of ice against her skin. “I’ll watch your back. And you can watch mine.” She hesitates. “And… if you need to—”

“I’m doing this.”

She stands on a precipice, and there is nothing but churning black water and jagged rock below. The wreckage of all the lives she wanted to lead lays smoldering behind her. The conditions of her love, and the limits of her loyalty; every lie her father told her; all her lost and rotten and ruined chances.

This is not a line she wants to cross.

But she cannot hesitate at the edge forever.

“…I can do this,” she whispers.

“Okay,” Caine says. “Then let’s get to it.”

Cassandra nods. Caine leads her in a scything path through the last of the trees. They slip through the deeper shadows of a house, following the crooked route Mathan showed them to get themselves into position behind the guards without being seen.

As soon as she spots them, Cassandra understands what Sirin meant when she called them _soldiers._ These are not the pressed and polished watchmen of her father’s command; they’re uniformed in mail and brigandine, wearing helmets that mask their faces and glint silver in the indifferent light of the waning moon.

Caine studies them for a moment, her head tipped thoughtfully to one side, and then slips a knife out of her boot. She glances at Cassandra, lifts her chin, and mimes the cutting of a throat.

Then she mouths, _cover me._

Quick and quiet.

Swallowing, she nods, and eases her broadsword free of its sheath. Caine flips the knife over in her hand and slinks out of their sheltered alleyway with a catlike, predatory grace.

It’s fast.

Caine strolls up behind the first soldier, yanks his head back, and rips the knife through his throat—blood sprays out and his body slumps and before his partner can react, Caine is on him, too, driving the knife-blade smoothly up into his throat. He gurgles. Caine steps away and tears the knife free, and he falls, and there’s silence.

The point of her broadsword sinks until it rests against the rutted street. Her heart bruises itself against her ribs; Caine takes a deep breath and wipes her knife with a fistful of her cloak. There’s blood on her gloves, glistening black.

“Be sick if you need to,” Caine says, very quietly. “It helps.”

She shakes her head. Her stomach feels dry as a bone, and everything else locked away in ice.

“Okay.” Caine slips the knife back into her boot, and they shamble away from the– corpses, Cassandra stumbling along with Caine’s hand on her shoulder. Deeper into the village, to—

“How many people have you killed?”

“Don’t know, honey.” There’s an edge to the words; a… splintered sound, which comforts. “That’s not a number I’m keen to track.” Then, quieter, “But… a lot.”

 _You chose this,_ Cassandra reminds herself. _You chose._

They find Sirin at a crossroads. She and Mathan are arguing in low voices when they approach, but she cuts herself off and they both wait in silence once they see Cassandra coming.

But it’s Sitheach who draws her attention.

The bodies of two more guards lie sprawled in the frozen street, and Sitheach kneels between them, expressionless, slowly undoing the tiny buttons holding their sleeve together. It splits neatly past their elbow, and as the white fabric falls away, it exposes a forearm latticed with scars. They’re thin and pale white, stark against the simmering brown of Sitheach’s skin, and too regular to have been carved by accident.

“What—”

“Might want to look away for this part, honey.”

Sitheach draws a dagger from their belt and tilts it to the moonlight, and Cassandra’s stomach turns itself inside out. She screws her eyes shut and turns away, pressing a hand over her mouth.

 _Why_ — _?_

The cold turns arid. An ashen taste seeps into her mouth and wicks all the moisture out of it; her eyes water and then dry—the dark behind her eyelids withers, becoming frail and papery as the layers of a wasp’s nest—

She coughs. Behind her, there’s a groan, then rustling, jingling mail; and Sirin, sighing, mutters, “That will _do._ ”

“It’s done,” Sitheach says, as the dryness relents and fresh moisture creep into Cassandra’s eyes. She blinks hard, her vision blurry through a wet scrim, and peaks cautiously over her shoulder.

The corpses are on their feet again.

Sitheach rises to their feet, refastening their sleeve buttons. Fresh blood soaks the linen, but they move without a trace of pain. “The others should already be gathered by the constabulary,” they say. “If the rest of you are ready.”

“…You—”

“Yes, yes, we’re all demon-worshippers here,” Sitheach says, sounding bored. They give her a wry glance, then click their fingers. The dead soldiers draw their weapons in jagged synchronicity and begin to move down the street. “Spare us the Sunlit lecture, dear; we’ve heard it all before.”

They stride after the walking corpses, and Cassandra trips along after them when Caine sets a hand against her shoulder and guides her forward. “A- a _warning_ would have been nice!”

Her voice comes out in a squeal. Hysteria creeps in the corners of her mind, kaleidoscopic. The temptation to collapse into it looms large, but she settles for crushing Caine’s wrist in her grip. It keeps her upright as they hurry through Socona.

“It was implied,” Sitheach says.

Frantic laughter crowds into her throat until she chokes on it. And a scream, crouched underneath it, rattling the wheezing chains she wraps around her lungs. _Quiet_ —

“…You need to sit down, honey?”

Moaning, Cassandra shakes her head. If she stops moving she’s going to shatter and they’ll never, she’ll never be able to pull herself together again. She’s hurtling off the cliff—

A shrill whistle lances the air.

“— _shit_ —”

The distress signal.

Cassandra starts running when the others do, cool adrenaline stripping out everything but the abrupt sound of clashing steel and one selfish pulse of gratitude as her mind narrows down to a bright point.

Chaos welcomes them at the constabulary. Soldiers and pirates and there’s blood splattered on the frosted ground, somebody screams, Sitheach’s corpses hammer into the garrison’s flank and three soldiers go down—and then the battle engulfs them all.

Her broadsword bites leather and steel in the crush of bodies and she’s slipping on the churned ice of the yard with blood in her eyes and danger writing itself in lightning across her mind—her mouth hangs open, she’s screaming, she’s screaming, a body falls in front of her and looming in the sudden gap there’s another man—a soldier, his face uncovered. The moonlight paints the planes of his grizzled face in harsh contrast; but she _knows_ him.

“Lieutenant Falke—”

His eyes widen in recognition, in mirrored shock, but Falke recovers first. He slams the hilt of his broadsword into her jaw before she can get hers up in defense, and she goes down with searing white lights popping in her eyes.

The hard ground pummels the air out of her lungs—Falke raises his sword—

A raven dives into his face. Its talons sink into his jaw, and it shrieks, battering him with its wings, while Cassandra watches in utter bafflement. Falke shoves at it without any effect; the bird shrieks again and pecks—

Falke screams.

The raven explodes away from his face, showering blood, and Falke screams and _screams_ as he clutches at the ruin of his eye socket.

And the night flows black.

Oily darkness swells into the air, blotting out the moon, blotting out the stars, coating the inside of her mouth with the tingling sensation of thunder. Another scream rings in her ears, an unraveling chorus of screams. The cold ground bucks beneath her; she feels something like the brush of wet fur against her cheek.

“Fall back!” Falke, bellowing, terrified. The darkness roars. “Fall back, _fall back!_ ”

She can _feel_ them running. Panicked footsteps like a bladed hail against her skin– the slap of a handprint when one stumbles and catches himself in the snow. The blinding dark streams past her, a receding tide, and she emerges coughing into the moonlight again.

Greenish afterimages swim across her eyes. Something viscous and briny dribbles out of her mouth as she coughs and wheezes for air.

When she can breathe again, when the night settles, when she finds the strength to lift her head, the first thing she sees is the vines.

They ramble across the yard and over and _into_ the constabulary, some as thick as Cassandra’s torso; a gnarled, black web. Some coil around the bodies of Coronan soldiers, their bodies broken and twisted like rag dolls. Bile floods her throat.

Retching, she rolls onto her knees and heaves the remnants of her dinner onto the tangle of vines woven underneath her, heaves up bile, heaves until there’s nothing left in her stomach but a shivering, empty ache. Tears drip down her face.

The others—

The rest of Caine’s crew, she sees when she’s able to sit up again, are picking themselves up. Most of them seem as shaken as she is; Mael is listing on her feet with Caine at her elbow, taking in the carnage with an expression of vague, concussed befuddlement; Sitheach runs a hand over the vines with mild interest.

Sirin slumps against the shattered constabulary wall, clutching her arm. Her sleeve is shredded to ribbons; the rotting flesh underneath it dangles in tatters, oozing some thick, dark liquid. She’s staring back at Cassandra, her eyes wide, misty with pain, bright as silver in the moonlight.

There is a rustle of feathers.

The raven alights on the trunk of a vine with a _thump,_ bristling its mane against the cold. It croaks, once, and Cassandra can’t hear the sound as anything but reproachful.

Then it spreads its wings again, and launches itself into the night.

Sirin closes her eyes.

“Well, we lived,” Caine says flatly. She passes a tottering Mael off to the Lachaīs sisters, who appear to have come out of it all with no more than a couple of scrapes, and picks her way over the vines. Cassandra takes the hand she offers, and lets Caine haul her to her feet. “Hope you can take it from here, Sirin, because—”

“Go.” Gasping quietly, Sirin staggers off the constabulary wall. Her arm dangles, limp. “The Captain– _nn_ — recognized you. Didn’t he?”

Reluctantly, Cassandra nods.

“So they’ll hunt you down,” Sirin whispers. “Don’t let them. _Go,_ now, and don’t look back.”

“You’re hurt—”

“I’m _fine,_ don’t—” She gathers up the dangling arm, cradling it to her chest with her other hand, and wrenches herself into a more upright posture. “I’m fine,” she says again, softer. “Just… be careful. Please, be careful.”

“We will,” Caine says curtly. “Everyone on their feet? Good. Back to the ship.”

“But—”

“We’ve gotta go, honey, come on.”

She wants to stay. Every step away from the shattered constabulary makes the realization cut deeper, lacerating her to the bone even as she stumbles after the pirates. She wants to stay, and– and—

“The Separatists will send people,” Caine says, her lips very close to Cassandra’s ear. “When they hear what happened tonight, people are going to _move,_ Socona’ll have all the support it needs. They’ll be okay. But Sirin’s right. There’s gonna be a target on your back even bigger than there was before. You’ve got to lay low.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I know.”

She looks back, one last time, once they reach the edge of the village. The ruptured constabulary yawns open like the maw of a gigantic beast, vines drooping in the gaps like ropes of drool. Sirin and Mathan are gone, vanished into the night.

There’s nothing left but ruins and vines, laid bare before the moon.


	25. Chapter 24: Then Wake to Weep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Injuries

###  **Chapter 24: Then Wake to Weep**

Sir Peter wears a granite mask as they stride down the drafty corridors of the hospital in Artois. He’s donned it often in the two weeks since his daughter revealed her treachery, and it suits him well, in Gilbert’s estimation.

 _Though it is a shame it hides so compromised a spirit,_ Gilbert muses. _A man must have the fortitude to do what is right._

“Here,” Sir Peter rumbles, stony as his face. The letter he has clutched all morning crinkles in his fist. He exchanges a dark glance with Gilbert. “Ward Five.”

Etched onto the brass plate on the door before them are the words _Charnel Ward._

“Saporians,” Gilbert mutters. _Outdated superstitions have no place in a modern hospital. And there’s nothing wrong with the number five!_

Sir Peter merely sighs as he pushes open the door. They enter in silence.

Ward Five _reeks._ It isn’t the stink of injury and infection, nor the pungent cleanliness of a sickroom—rather, the dark, stagnant, putrid smell wafting through the ward puts Gilbert in mind of kelp washed ashore and rotting in the sun. A common stench in Herzingen, during the summer months. Sir Peter grunts in distaste. His own lip curls.

“What is that _stench?_ ” 

“Ah! Your Highness— and Commander Morgenstern, I presume?” A heavyset man decked in burgundy physician’s robes waddles across the ward to greet them, wringing his parchment-pale, immaculately clean hands together before him. Doctor’s hands, incongruous when the grotesque Saporian euphemism for the trauma ward. “Welcome, wel– I’m sorry it couldn’t be under pleasanter circumstances, Sirs. I’m Doctor Meram.”

“The smell, Doctor?” Gilbert presses.

Meram grimaces. “It- it may be best you see for yourself, Sir. Please—”

Beckoning for them to follow, he moves with jerky haste down the ward, past beds that sit empty. Crisp white sheets. Of course, Gilbert had not expected more than a handful of patients. The frantic letter that arrived in Herzingen just before dawn had been clear on the casualties, if nothing else.

“Captain Falke,” Meram says in a low, unhappy voice as he sweeps them along, “has been awake for the past hour. His are the severest injuries—the other survivors are recuperating in Ward Three.”

“His injuries…?” Sir Peter asks.

“Nine broken ribs. One punctured his lung, which partially collapsed. Massive contusions. Severe concussion. Facial lacerations, and he appears to have been stabbed in the eye—”

Sir Peter mutters a curse.

“But how did this _happen?_ ”

“When we aspirated his chest, we found a– well, what appears to be a mixture of bog-water and pitch.” Meram stops before a linen screen, which shields one of the beds from casual view. Indistinct mumbles trickle through the translucent fabric; Falke’s voice. “That’s the smell, I’m afraid. This is witch’s work, gentlemen.”

 _The Janus Point conspirators. The Separatist witch._ Gilbert would stake his life on that. A similar smell lingered in the third level of the dungeons for several days after Sergeant Connell’s murder, and the steel defiance in the witch’s eyes when they questioned her haunts him still. If he had pushed harder for her swift execution after she refused to talk—

_One cannot change the past. But the future? Oh, yes, we can safeguard that. We must._

When he rouses himself from thought, it is to hear Sir Peter saying “—but what specifically happened? Your letter—”

“There was an uprising in Socona last night, Commander,” Meram replies bluntly. “The Thorn Syconium—”

“The what?”

Impatience flickers across Meram’s face, quick as a breeze; he says, “Cultists, Your Highness—backwater rabble. Ternary worship persists in many of southern Corona’s less—” a disdainful sniff “—urbane regions. In any case, the Syconium is in open revolt. From what we’ve gathered, they destroyed the constabulary in Socona, killing all but four of the men—”

“But _how?_ ” Gilbert grinds his teeth together as Meram throws him a startled, rabbit-eyed glance; he feels a familiar pang of longing for the medics he rubbed shoulders with during the Hvassjarn War. _They_ had been made of sterner stuff. “A mob of disgruntled farmers—”

“Sir, you’ve spent the past five months raving of the Separatist threat—”

“I seem to remember you dismissing my warnings of imminent rebellion as paranoid raving, _Commander;_ you are in no position to—”

“—Gentlemen, I’m not sure—”

“ _I_ warned _you_ your provocations would push Corona to the brink of—”

“Gentlemen, please!” Meram places himself bodily between them, wall-eyed, lifting his hands in pleading placation. Gilbert straightens with a stiffness Sir Peter mirrors. “Captain Falke is in delicate condition, Sirs,” he says. “If you must raise your voices, I must insist you take it into the corridor. Charnel Ward isn’t a place for—”

“Must you use that _ridiculous_ —”

“Ward Five,” Sir Peter interjects curtly.

Jowls quivering, Meram swallows. “Ward… Five. Yes– my… my apologies, Your Highness. I’m afraid I cannot provide much detail regarding the- the incident in Socona.” He clears his throat. “The survivors are all rather– Captain Falke in particular isn’t—well, as I said. Maybe best you see for yourselves.”

He pulls a panel of the screen aside and waves them through. The mumbling swims into focus as Gilbert steps into the partitioned space.

“—the teeth the teeth in a black gullet– _where is the bottom—_ the stars, they’re all gone black—”

“Stars above,” Sir Peter breathes.

Gilbert is inclined to agree.

Falke’s mumbles crack into a feeble groan. His fingers twitch on the rumpled hospital sheet. Bandages swaddle most of his face; what little skin there is left bare by the gauze is swollen, mottled by dark bruises and congealing scabs. His one remaining eye is a feverish slit nestled against the crooked ridge of his nose. His lips quiver as he resumes his feverish muttering.

“—she brings the winter in her gown of sticks when the nights go dark and the wind screams– oh! Oh, the sun! Feathers burning in the dark feathering heat into the black, into the empty black–”

“…Captain?” Sir Peter ventures. He sets a hand gingerly against Falke’s shoulder, to no effect. “Liam?”

“—I saw, I’ve seen—!” Gasping, Falke scrabbles at the sheets until Sir Peter offers him a hand, which he crushes in a brutal grip that saps the color from the Commander’s face. “C- _Com-m-mander_ … the ash, the ash, it’s all burnt down. Burning—”

The words lapse into an wracking sob. Sir Peter inhales, and then dangles on that breath in flat confusion.

“…Do you mean the… constabulary?” he asks at last.

“Where hangs the sun when the skies have fled?” Falke moans. “She burns, she burns, in a hollow _pit_ — I-I– I—!”

Another anguished cry tears through him, and Falke slumps against his pillow. Tears drip from his eye; he wheezes, silent.

“It’s shock,” Meram says, feebly. “Ah– hallucinations, brought about by combined physical trauma and lingering ah, magic.”

“Are you suggesting he’s been cursed?”

Meram squirms before the heat of Gilbert’s glare. ”My- my— not… as _such,_ Your Highness. As I understand it the Syconium uses– ah– liquids, as their vector of choice. Magic requires a- a physical medium to work with, yes? So—the mixture I spoke of, before, the pitch and water we drained from the Captain’s chest, it was laced with magic. I’d wager he aspirated it during the– battle. I have treated patients with similar injuries in the past; vivid nightmares, and disturbing hallucinations are quite common in the immediate aftermath.” He pauses. “A temporary condition. Typically it subsides within a week or two.”

“Do you work with magic often, Doctor?” Gilbert asks quietly. Meram pales.

“No, no, I—”

Falke groans again, louder than Meram’s breathless spluttering, and Gilbert, frowning, turns back toward the sickbed. An uncertain lucidity shines in his eye now, fever-bright.“Com- Commander. They— a-ambushed. In the night.”

“Who?”

“We were betrayed,” Falke says. “Two- two of our officers… fought with them.”

“ _What?!_ ”

Falke squeezes his eye shut and begins to cough, a wheezing, pitiful rattle. Meram shuffles to the other side of the bed and lifts the blankets to make some adjustment, his lips pursed.

“…Didn’t see– who,” Falke croaks once the fit subsides. “There were—a dozen, at least. Saporians. Armed. Commander, your- your daughter…”

Sir Peter catches his breath like a man dealt an unexpected blow to the gut, his shoulders setting into rigid stillness.

“…with them. F-fighting—”

“That– no.” Sir Peter, a plaintive mutter; Gilbert cages a scoff behind his teeth.

“It seems,” he says cooly, “plausible, at the least. After all, she did steal—”

“My daughter is not—” Clamping his lips together, Sir Peter lifts his hand to his face. “Stealing the Journal is one– but attacking _watchmen?_ Fighting in– she wouldn’t, my daughter would not—”

“Evidently she would,” Gilbert drawls.

“I _know_ my daughter—”

“ _Do_ you?” 

“I didn’t raise her like _this_ —”

“Be that as it may,” Gilbert says, making no effort to staunch the flow of scorn into his tone, “she has made her loyalties rather _emphatically_ clear. Stop closing your eyes to the plain truth, Sir! Whatever moral conflict it may comfort you to believe she feels—”

“This isn’t who she _is!_ ”

“It is obvious to me,” Gilbert says slowly, enunciating each syllable with great care, “that you did not know that girl half so well as you thought you did.”

Sir Peter flinches; tightening in the shoulders, in his jaw, he forces air out through his teeth as he returns his attention to the sickbed. “She’s my daughter.”

Sighing, Gilbert leans over to clasp the poor man’s shoulder. “You do have my sympathy.” Faint though it is, threaded with scorn though it may be; he is not a heartless man. “But, Sir, it is past time to— the Saporians are in open rebellion. We are at _war,_ and your ward has chosen her side. If you cannot set aside your feelings as her guardian in order to perform you duties as the _Commander_ of the King’s Watch—”

The tension in Sir Peter’s shoulders winds tighter still, and Gilbert presses his lips together, frustrated.

“This is not the time for sentimentality, Sir.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” Sir Peter growls. He straightens out of his miserable hunch, nodding curtly. “Doctor, I would like to speak to the rest of _my_ officers. Ward Three, wasn’t it?”

“Ah- yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

Sir Peter does not stalk away, but his stiff march comes as close to it as Gilbert has ever seen from the Commander; not a surprise, he supposes, but it is something of a disappointment. He _had_ hoped to get through to him, today.

An uncomfortable silence settles in his wake. Falke lapses back into his delirious whispers bit by bit, and after a moment Meram murmurs his vague excuses and slips out of the partitioned space.

There’s a rickety chair stood against the wall beside the sickbed, and Gilbert pulls it out and sits, eyes lidded, to bear witness to Falke’s fitful dozing, his whimpered soliloquy of teeth and shadows and lightless stars.

_No. No more._

He rubs the scarred nub of his missing ear, feeling grim. He had been so _young_ on the day he lost it. Twenty-nine years old, untested and untempered by battle. Brimming with the callow arrogance of youth. He tore his helmet off himself, unable to breathe in the haze of battle. He will never forget the steel whistle of the saber as it flashed past his face—the crimson burst of _pain_ —the crystalizing shock as he looked death in the eyes.

The stubborn resolve that clambered into his heart and whispered, _No._

_No._

“I will end this,” Gilbert says, gazing at Falke. _Twenty-eight officers dead in five months. By the stars, I will_ end _it._ “I swear it.”

Others began it. The Saporians, festering in their iniquitous dens of magic and corruption; Frederic, soft-hearted and afraid. Sir Peter, whose attachment to his traitorous ward has cut him to the quick and left him bleeding. A liability.

_But I will end it._

_Whatever it takes._

## ❦

For breakfast, she is plied with fruit and sweetbreads. Sugar crusts her fingers. Pomegranates stain her mouth red; Rapunzel crushes the seeds against the roof of her mouth with her tongue, and the juice flows bitter and sweet, flows like the watercolors of her attention while Master Vernors drones on the spiderweb treaties of the Sevenfold Pact.

Eugene lifts a pastry to his mouth. Flaking, delicate, stuffed with berries and glazed with a creamy syrup that glistens oily in the morning sunlight suffusing the dining hall. Rapunzel licks the sugar from her fingers, studying the fine lines of his jaw while he chews; the push and pull of tendons in his neck. The golden flecks in his eyes. She reaches for the grapes, and smiles.

“Eugene, I—”

—how her brush fans against the canvas! Dark bristles and white cloth. Rapunzel twists the brush just _so,_ and presses a pale green leaf into the blank possibility. She feels, as she always does, a quiver of delight.

Mrs. Sugarby circles the gallery, humming fragments of a melancholy tune under her breath; the soft _click_ of her cane against the polished floor a forlorn metronome. Sometimes she will pause to admire the bizarre paintings of Sugracha il Pchela, and Rapunzel will hear her heartbeat like a pounded gong in the silence.

She daubs in more leaves, then lifts her brush to measure the proportions of the wizened little tree Mrs. Sugarby arranged in the center of the room.

(“Why all the studies?” she asked.

“Oh—” Mrs. Sugarby laughed that rich and joyful laugh, laying a warm hand against Rapunzel’s shoulder. “All art is, my dear, is learning how to _see._ ”)

“Is there something troubling you, dear?”

“No—” One long stroke, serpentine, in ashen grey; a knotted root dips in sly suggestion over the rim of the little tree’s ceramic planter. Blues, for shadow, soft and glaucous like her morning grapes. “…Yes. Maybe.”

“It is so painful,” Mrs. Sugarby murmurs, “to be of two minds. Isn’t it, dear?”

Her dress is a garden today. Earthen brown, stitched into green and gold; a luxuriant brocade. An ebon stole drapes her shoulders, and she caresses the fur with an absentminded smile.

“I’m worried about Cass,” Rapunzel whispers.

“Tell me, dear.” Mrs. Sugarby completes her circuit of the gallery and drifts to Rapunzel’s shoulder, sympathy blossoming in her spring-green eyes. “You’ll feel better.”

“Mom told me—”

 _She is in the library._ She is in the library, the reddish dregs of evening light drip through the windows. It paints a bloody cast over the tomes of Coronan law she wrestled down from the shelves. Pascal basks on her shoulders, and she is glad for the needle-sharp prick of his claws.

_Onus procedendi sounds promising—_

“Rapunzel?”

For an instant the crawling twilight corrupts Mom’s grave expression into a macabre leer; but Rapunzel blinks, and as Mom settles into a seat beside her, the illusion fractures.

“Yes?”

Muddled hesitation clouds Mom’s eyes. They are hazed with nascent tears. When she inhales, Rapunzel feels something inside herself fall into a defensive crouch.

“Sweetheart,” Mom murmurs, “I’m so sorry. Fred– didn’t want to tell you, but I think you should know.”

Her heart clenches. “Something happened to Cass.”

“Not… quite. Do you remember the– the commotion, yesterday morning? Well, there…” Mom shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath. “There was an incident,” she says very softly, “in southern Corona.”

Then she says the word _insurgency,_ and she says the words _maybe civil war,_ and she says the words _saw Cassandra with the rebels,_ and Rapunzel hears nothing else beneath the roar in her ears. _No. No!_

“…Rapunzel—”

“No!” She is on her feet and she is screaming, but her own voice sounds miles away. Pascal’s claws pinch her shoulder. “ _Cass wouldn’t do that!_ You’re wrong!”

“Rapunzel—”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” Mrs. Sugarby croons into her ear, soothing. Rapunzel blinks. The canvas, her desiccated little tree, congeals back into focus. Mrs. Sugarby smooths a wisp of hair behind her ear, a gesture so maternal it makes her skin prickle with unease. “She’s your friend.”

“You understand,” Rapunzel whispers.

“I do. Oh, I do.” Her hand falls to Rapunzel’s shoulder. “You must be so worried. So confused. It hurts when friends leave us behind, doesn’t it?”

Rapunzel shivers.

“Yes,” Mrs. Sugarby says, very quietly. “I think we’re done for today. Go rest. Same time tomorrow, dear.”

The smell of paint fills her nostrils. It seeps into the cracks of her skin and lingers there; she reads and she dines and and she bathes she walks with Eugene on the frozen lawns and she loses at chess against Lance and she watches clock faces crawl through her lessons and she drinks the greased smell of oil paint, the softer glaze of watercolor.

The moon tickles her easel. She coaxes Cassandra from her canvas beneath the stars, her breath ragged with the tears she cannot shed in daylight, whispering promises she only half remembers when she shambles out of bed in the mornings.

_Oh, Cass._

Her alabaster skin. (“Sallow,” Eugene had muttered once, in summertime, after one of their arguments. “Like sour milk. You think she ever goes outside? Heh, maybe she’s a vampire—”

“ _Eugene._ ”

“I’m just saying. She’s icy enough…”)

But she carves the high curves of Cassandra’s cheekbones in ivory and alabaster, and feathers in ebony for the delicate curls of her hair. Cass is beautiful; a study in contrast, in hard edges and delicate angles; even her mouth cut into a sharp, sly smile. Rapunzel spends several sleepless nights lingering on the cold intensity in her mossy-green eyes. Beautiful; like flowers gilded in frost.

One afternoon Aunt Willow breezes into the sluggish muddle of her deportment lessons and sweeps her away to the stables; where in the dusty warmth they feed slices of apple to the horses off duty. Willow worries a piece of straw between her teeth, fidgeting, fidgeting like she’s aggravated by the silence.

“Is something wrong?” Rapunzel asks.

“I’m going away again,” Willow says loudly. The straw flutters out of her mouth; she scuffs her toe over it when it hits the floor. “At the end of the week.”

“Oh.”

“This is, actually, this—is the longest I’ve been in Corona since you were—” Willow pauses for a very long moment, looking pained, before settling on, “—a baby.”

Rapunzel leans against a stall door to scratch Fidella’s forehead. She wonders if the huge mare misses Cassandra as much as she does, or if she’s given up on Cass too. “Oh.”

“You could come with me,” Willow says.

“…What?”

“Ari and me have been talking about it. We think a trip might… be good for you.” Bracelets jangling, she fiddles with the end of one of her braids and flashes Rapunzel a nervous smile. “Get out of Corona for a while, you know, see the world. We could tour the central plains; Eldora, Marne, Koto… All _gorgeous_ countries. I think you’d like it.”

“Is this because of the war?”

Willow wrinkles her nose. “I think that’s why Fred agreed. But, um. No. Rapunzel, you’ve been through a… a _lot,_ this year, and the last month and a half– and sometimes a change of scenery can really help… process.” Her eyes are more hazel than Mom’s green, but they have the same gentle warmth. “Ari’s really worried about you. Ever since Cass—”

“I’m fine, Aunt Willow,” Rapunzel says, stiffening. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind. Thank you, _but_ —”

Vermilion petals nestle against Cassandra’s hair. Rapunzel tucks them behind her friend’s ear, sculpting the painted layers of the rose with breathless care the night after Willow’s goodbye dinner. Its thin green stem curves against the smooth lines of Cass’s neck. She hums the song simmering inside her chest as she paints the thorns, small and black, meticulous little barbs.

_If you were here, Cass—_

Mrs. Sugarby gives her shells to paint. Elegant and vicious, crimson and white. They whisper ocean sounds with alabaster mouths; she turns them over in her hands, learning the intricacies of their imperfections, their faint ridges, their spirals and spines. She carries them home with her after, arranges them on the little stand beside her bed.

Pascal does not like them. Anger bruises his sides, feathers of dull black and thunderous grey. “They’re just shells, Pascal,” she tells him in exasperation, after the fifth time he hisses at them from across the room. “They’re _pretty._ Come on.”

She paints, and paints, and paints, until the sun rouses itself from sleep and watery golden light seeps into her bedroom. Her head throbs. She meant to sleep tonight—

“…Sunshine? Are you– ah, of course you’re up.” Eugene smiles like a second sunrise, and shuts her bedroom door very gently behind him. “Hey, Rapunzel.”

“Morning, Eugene.” Her fatigue cracks like an egg as he approaches, and when he stoops to kiss her forehead, fledgling affection puffs its downy breast and preens in the dawn.

“Hey,” he murmurs again. As he steps away, his gaze lands on the half-finished portrait, and a tiny crease appears between his brows. He studies it for a moment, looking pensive.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yeah, I– yeah.” Eugene gives her one of the odd glances she’s grown accustomed to in the last several weeks; a little uncertain, as if she’s become an enigma he can’t decipher. “I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“You.” His lips twitch. “Well, you’re always on my mind, Sunshine; but I mean… Huh. Listen, Rapunzel, I just– I know you’ve been stressed, lately. We’re all—everything happening now, it’s– and then with Cass…”

“Eugene, I’m _fine_ ,” Rapunzel insists. She wipes her brush clean and busies herself with putting all her paints away; it helps to have her hands occupied, when he gets like this. “Really—”

“It’s just.” He’s running his hand through his hair when she peeks, and the sunrise limns him in gold. “You spend all your spare time working on… this.” A gesture, another tiny frown at the portrait. “And you’ve been acting– distant, and distracted, and—I’m just worried, Rapunzel.”

“I’m painting my feelings out,” Rapunzel says with a shrug. “Like Mrs. Sugarby says.”

“Oh…kay, but—is it _helping?_ Is this—”

She tucks herself against his side, resting her head on his shoulder, and tries to see the painting from his perspective. More roses tangle around Cassandra’s shoulders now, a mantle of briars and blossoms, weeping red petals. Her chin juts out in proud defiance against a starlit field, the crescent of a moon threading pale highlights into her glistening hair.

“She’s sharper than the real Cass,” Eugene remarks.

“It’s a stylistic experiment.”

“A lot more… intense.”

Rapunzel shrugs. “It’s how I feel.”

“…Right. Well– Sunshine…” Sighing, Eugene turns her toward him, hands on her shoulders. His callused palms skim down her bare arms, and a pleasant shiver echoes down her spine. “I also… miss you,” he admits quietly. “I miss spending time with just… you. Things have been so crazy—”

His chest is warm under her fingertips, and when she pushes him onto the window bench his eyes widen. Rapunzel follows him down, gripped by a sharp and sudden need to _just_ —she kisses him hard, drinking the jolting sound of his surprise—

“—I can’t sleep,” she tells Mrs. Sugarby. A reversal: Rapunzel paces, and Mrs. Sugarby perches on the bench, watching with glittering interest. “I feel so jittery and- and _restless,_ all the time. Maybe I should have gone with Aunt Willow after all. I- I thought I was just missing Cass but now I—”

Last night she dreamed of caged birds and wild gardens; of rose briars tangled around the sun. She knelt and dug in the wet soil, searching for something she could not name, until their thorns cut her and the sun burned her and she jolted awake with pain stinging in her fingertips.

Mrs. Sugarby cuts into her path, and cups her hand beneath Rapunzel’s chin. “You poor thing,” she murmurs. “It’s stress, my dear. I’ve seen this many times before. All your anguish has gone unheard, hasn’t it? None of them understand how you feel.”

“…They don’t.”

Everyone wants to talk to her about Cassandra. Dad’s effort to shield her from the gristly reality taking shape in southern Corona has begun to fracture, and the rumors trickling through turn her stomach. Rioting in Alcorsīa. The contingent of guards sent to reestablish order in Socona, missing now and presumed dead or captured. Evil magic. And Cassandra, out there somewhere in the middle of it.

Nobody wants to hear that Cass is her _friend._

She trembles. Mrs. Sugarby strokes her hair, murmuring soft, wordless comfort. “I know, dear. I know. You don’t like to disappoint people, do you, my dear? You want to fit yourself into the mold they’ve given you. But you mustn’t, dear, you _mustn’t._ Listen to what your heart tells you.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “All my heart is telling me is that I want Cass to be safe.”

“Oh, I think it has more to say than that.” She tips Rapunzel’s chin up again. “You’re hiding, dear. You’re frightened of what you’ll hear _._ But you needn’t be. _Listen_ to it.”

“I don’t think I know how,” she whispers.

“Paint,” Mrs. Sugarby says. “Your hands know. Follow them. And, Rapunzel—”

“Yes?”

“Hide the painting.” A smile curdles on her lips, almost a smirk. Her emerald eyes glitter. “The portrait, of Cassandra, the one you’ve told me about. Don’t let anyone else see it until it’s ready. Sometimes our art is best nourished in secret.”

## ❦

The snow squeaks beneath Cassandra’s boots as she clicks her tongue. Owl wings out of the gloaming and alights on her raised fist with a quiet warble. His yellow eyes seem to shine with the last vestiges of sunlight, and he snaps up the treat she offers him, trilling contentedly.

She breathes.

They’ve been holed up in Cháchiedh since the skirmish in Socona. Some of the crew had made noises about wanting to return to Alcorsīa, after, to brace up the rebellion there; but Caine had taken one glance at Cassandra’s expression before ending _that_ discussion with a flat, “No.”

Then she sailed them here. Cháchiedh is a handful of shabby houses tucked into a cove just a few miles shy of the southern border. There’s a ramshackle dock, and three fishing boats, and the grey aura of neglect that seems to cling to every small village on this side of the Nathair.

It’s quiet.

She breathes.

Cháchiedh doesn’t receive much in the way of news or rumor from the rest of Corona. The _Zampermin_ is a buzzing hive of speculation—about the little villages strung like beads along the road from Artois to Alcorsīa, about Alcorsīa itself, about the dissidents in Charcāthēn and its constellation of towns—always with breathless traces of excitement.

But none of them _know_ anything.

It eats away at her. She feels riddled with termites; doubt and regret, uncertainty, fears.

Her nightmares are filled with soldiers storming through the trees.

Lieutenant– _Captain_ Falke will have made his report by now, if he survived the night. Cassandra tried to envision her father’s reaction when he learned what she’s done, that she was _there,_ and comes up blank. Disappointment? Anger? Does he still consider her his daughter, anymore?

_Should he?_

Does _Rapunzel_ know? Her parents and tutors shielded her from the grimy interior festering behind the gilded facade of Corona’s unification, but—

Some fetid, thicketed corner of her soul howls for the Princess to know; if treason is everything she has left to her name then Corona has no _right_ to rip that away from her, too. Let them brand her a traitor. Let them _rage._

 _How,_ Cassandra wonders, _did I get here._

It feels like a sick cosmic joke. She tried so _hard_.

Owl twists his head to stare over her shoulder, then, fluffing his feathers, and hoots a greeting. A moment later she hears the crunch of footsteps in the fresh snow and bites down on a sigh as Caine slopes up beside her.

“Dinnertime,” Caine says.

“Not hungry.”

“Too bad.” Caine answers her glare with an impassive tilt of her chin. “Come on.”

“What are you, my _mother?_ ”

Caine grins, wolfish. “This brooding thing you do’s getting stale, honey. It’s been a _week._ ”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry for being _upset—_ ”

“Didn’t say that,” Caine says breezily. She jerks her chin toward the _Zampermin,_ and Cassandra starts moving with a belligerent huff. “You can feel whatever you want, I don’t care, but don’t just— _wallow._ Can’t sit around in Cháchiedh forever.”

Cassandra kicks at the tufts of beachgrass protruding through the snow and says nothing, until Caine scoffs.

“Where do you want to _go?_ ”

“…What?”

“Vacona’s nice this time of year,” Caine says. “Marne… isn’t, but it’s closer and won’t extradite Saporians to Corona; or if you’re still keen on this hotheaded revolutionary thing we can bounce to Alcorsīa and—”

“I want to go to Herrfeld.”

Caine pauses like she’s waiting for the punchline. When Cassandra fails to give her one she says, calmly, “Are you insane?”

“The black rocks—”

“Can be somebody else’s problem. Somebody who doesn’t have a _bounty_ on her head.”

“Well I want to make them my problem.”

“You are _impossible—_ ”

“You asked what I wanted and now you’re—”

“—how did you even _survive_ this long—”

“—making fun of me for it.”

“Did Morgenstern beat the self-preservation instinct out of you? Is this just a Corona thing? Honey—”

“Moira. You _said_ —”

Caine swears loud enough to startle Owl, who flutters his wings and hoots in indignation. “I _know_ what I said. So sorry for assuming you had a _brain_ —”

“ _Moira_ —”

“—Fine. Fine! But we are doing it _my_ way.” Caine swings into her path and prods a finger into her chest. “You know why I walked away with the Journal on Unification Day?”

“Because I’m an idiot?” Cassandra sneers.

“Because I came _prepared,_ ” Caine says testily. “We are not just bouncing over the Pingoras like it’s nothing, alright? We’re gonna find a nice quiet lake up in the mountains, hunker down, and get the lay of the land for a week. Maybe two. _Then_ we go in with a plan. Got it?”

“…I’m not _that_ reckless,” she mutters. Caine snorts, incredulous, but does her the kindness of letting that pass without comment. “Ugh—fine. Aye-aye, _Captain_.”

Smirking, Caine resumes her sashay toward the docks, and Cassandra presses down against the impatience splintering in her gut. It feels like flint striking steel; a jolt, a spark to singe her out of the bog she’s been– alright, _wallowing_ in all week. Her head feels a little clearer, and now she wants to _move._

“We’ll leave at dawn,” Caine says, as if sensing the tenor of her thoughts. “Sail north until we’re on a level with Alcorsīa, then bounce for the mountains. Shouldn’t take more than two days if the weather holds.”

 _Two days._ Then another week or more in the mountains planning their approach. Sicáraen will have folded into Zīrémīr by the time they make it into Herrfeld.

Cassandra grinds her teeth together.

_I hate waiting._

## ❦

Varian scrubs his face with both hands. He feels itchy all over, and the reverberating whine of the rocks in the caves underneath Arieta’s cottage make it worse.

“Focus, Varian,” he mutters. “Come on…”

 _Back to it._ He tugs his gloves on again before gingerly unscrewing the cap on the flask of aqua regia. The reddish acid is stronger than anything he’s ever worked with before, and before she let him touch it, Arieta had dropped a dead shrew into a beaker full of it and made him watch.

 _Don’t spill, dear._ A better warning than all of Dad’s vague admonishments combined.

He adds three drops of aqua regia to his beaker and stirs while the liquid goes from cloudy grey to hazy yellow, bubbling gently.

Living with Arieta has been… interesting. She might be the smartest person he knows; every conversation ends with his head saturated like a sponge, soaked in _new things_ while all the information he couldn’t absorb leaks out of his ears and leaves him feeling more than a little wrung out. The natural caverns under her house make for a sprawling laboratory he _still_ hasn’t seen all of, and when she gave him his first, perfunctory tour he had felt dazed by the sheer amount of _things_ crammed onto the walls. Bookshelves and cabinets and racks of chemicals and dry ingredients; a whole cabinet filled with nothing but small dead animals preserved in greenish formaldehyde; maps and star charts and scrolls written in dozens of unfamiliar languages paper the walls wherever there’s space free. She has a whole room dedicated to cultivating mushrooms, which grow on lumps of decaying tree trunks and in tiered beds of mulch and molding leaves; glow-worms and glistening mycelium coat the walls in that chamber.

Then there’s the _books._ The ones in the cottage are normal, if old; written mostly in Coronan. Books of history and philosophy, punctuated by cookbooks written in a dozen different languages—Varian had been dutifully impressed when Arieta confirmed that she could read _all_ of them.

The tomes she keeps in the caverns are… different. Bound in crumbling leather or decrepit cloth, or stranger materials—there’s one book with a cover of rusted _iron,_ of all things, and a whole shelf full of books bound with bark and twine. Most of them are written in languages Varian can’t read, many with unfamiliar scripts; but even the ones in Coronan sound unhinged, in a way that makes his head pound when he tries to read them. Sigils and symbols and peculiar diagrams crawl over the ancient vellum. “That’s occultists for you,” Arieta had said, sniffing, when Varian asked. “They’re all a bit mad, dear.”

“ _You’re_ an occultist,” Varian pointed out, and Arieta just grinned and changed the subject. Birds of a feather, he supposes.

The near-constant ache in his scar saws across his nerves. Grunting, he ducks, rubbing his chin into his shoulder, which doesn’t help but _feels_ like it should.

His solution fizzes one last time, a feeble whimper of escaping gas, and settles. Varian shakes off the pipette, closes the flask of aqua regia and carefully slots it back into its place in the cupboard, and then shuffles down the counter to finish powdering his potash.

Splinters of his dreams still stick in his thoughts, festering. He cried himself awake this morning, half from the throbbing pain in his scar and half for the canorous music that pulsed through his dreams and slipped like water through his fingers as he sat up. The temptation to go sit with his forehead pressed against the black rocks that barb into the caverns laps at the edges of his consciousness. He feels a little feverish, and the relentless cold of the moonstone’s—roots?—would soothe.

_No. Focus._

The potash crackles spitefully as he grinds it down, tongue poked between his teeth. Once it’s all reduced to glittering powder, he scoops it into the solution and stirs again. The golden liquid fogs, and flushes blue.

Upstairs, the cottage door creaks open and then shuts with a bang. Varian cants his head, listening to the patter of footsteps overhead. Arieta hums. There’s a loud _thump,_ and then the squeal of the trapdoor and a trickle of sunlight at his back.

“Hard at work?”

“Trying out those adjustments you suggested. Seems promising—”

“That’s wonderful, dear. Come upstairs when you’ve a moment, won’t you?”

“Mm-hm.”

Arieta leaves the trapdoor propped open, and the breath of natural light into the laboratory seems to chase the cobwebs out of his head. Humming, Varian settles into the familiar rhythm of the work; chopping, crushing, stirring. At length he pours the solution into the retort and leaves it to simmer before clambering up the ladder into the cottage.

“How were your errands today?”

“Productive.” Arieta grins, though the joy sloughs out of her expression once she gets a good look out of his face. “You’re looking peaky, dear. More bad dreams?”

“I– yeah.” Varian’s not sure he’d call them _nightmares,_ but they have… teeth, and they cast long shadows over his waking hours. “I’m just tired.”

“Sit, sit. I’ll put a kettle on, shall I?” She bustles him solicitously into his seat at the table. “Tired, hm? I suppose that’s to be expected.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes.” She tosses a few logs into the hearth, then jabs at the smoldering embers with her poker until they catch. Flames lick up the dry wood, and warmth swells out of the hearth. Varian shivers. “Dreams, disturbances… It’s all very normal for someone getting into the study of magic. It takes a little adjustment.”

“Why?”

“I’ve told you a little about the profane and the sublime,” Arieta hums, “haven’t I? Well, dear, there’s always a… tension, between the two. Fascination intertwined with repulsion. Have you ever heard a song played on an out-of-tune instrument? It’s a little like that. A discordant harmony.”

“Like oil and water.”

“A little like that, yes. This—” she waves a hand in his general direction without looking “—happens because your mind hasn’t yet settled into a comfortable equilibrium. Have I mentioned _choimghē_ yet, dear?”

“…I don’t… think so?”

“Goodness, really?” Arieta looks briefly startled by this oversight; she strolls to the table and sits down across from him, propping her chin in her hand. “Magic, dear, is about finding balance, within yourself, between the profane realm and the sublime. Resolving that tension; finding the harmony, as it were. That is what _choimghē_ means. Without it, well– you’re experiencing that for yourself right now.”

“Well– how do I _do_ that?”

“ _I_ can’t tell you. Everyone comes to it in their own way; but from experience, it’s best to keep forging ahead. Hesitation only prolongs the… unpleasantness.” Her cheeks dimple as she smiles, her eyes sparkling a brighter green when they catch the late afternoon sunlight coming through the window. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much, my dear. You’ve held up really quite well.”

“Have I?”

“Oh, yes. Your father would– your father _will_ be so proud, once we find a way to free him.”

_Will he?_

He lingers over the notion. It feels an ungainly fit against all the memories of Quirin telling him _no,_ warnings of danger that went ignored, the accumulated failures that led to the destruction of his _home._

Arieta moves around the table and kneels before him, clasping his shoulder. “Varian,” she says quietly, “you are a _remarkable_ young man. Any parent who isn’t proud of you would have to be blind or a fool. Your father isn’t blind or a fool, is he?”

A slight, reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “No.”

“No.” She squeezes his arm. “He’ll see everything you’ve accomplished, how much you’ve learnt and _grown_ , and he will be so, _so_ proud of you. I promise.”

He ducks his head, embarrassed by the tears that well up in his eyes in response to that. Arieta pretends not to notice while he wipes his eyes, and when he looks up, sniffling, she’s grinning again.

“So what’s next?” he asks.

“Ah!” Beaming now, Arieta hurries across the room to retrieve a large package from the entryway. She drops it onto the table with a _thump_ and plucks at the twine holding its wrapping in place. “ _This_ came today, from a colleague of mine in Antares.”

Varian is completely unsurprised when the heavy oilcloth falls away to reveal another book, of the crumbling and occult variety. Faint sigils are scratched into the ancient leather binding, and a faded, spiraling pattern is stitched into the front cover with greyish thread.

“What makes this one special?” he asks, because to him it looks just like every other moldering tome Arieta keeps downstairs.

She chuckles. “It was written by an ancient sorcerer named Idris Carthamine several thousand years ago. Turul and the moonstone were a particular fascination of his, and—allegedly—he recorded all manner of spells and rituals drawing on their power; all long forgotten now.” Arieta’s expression glazes over with wistfulness, and she traces her fingertips over the swirling patterns on the cover. “So much has been lost to the vagaries of history, Varian; it kills me to think of it.”

“Um–”

She brightens again in a heartbeat. “My colleague went to tremendous effort to acquire this for us. Of course, the language it’s written in is long dead, but I’ve the necessary materials to begin work on a translation downstairs. It should prove an enlivening challenge.” Her eyes shine with an eager, infectious enthusiasm.

“Well, then,” Varian says, grinning. “What are we waiting for?”


	26. Chapter 25: Above the Cold Sky Shone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter! Focus was utterly shot all last week x_x

###  **Chapter 25: Above the Cold Sky Shone**

Herrfeld lies black and singing in the snow.

The _Zampermin_ made landing in the Pingoras on the first of Zīrémīr. She, Moira, and the Lachaīs twins hiked down the northern flanks of the mountains to scour the petrified forest for the caves Cassandra remembered from the storm. They set up camp in the eerie light of the glow-worms, and Cassandra tried not to look at the simmering hot spring, or the flat shelf of rock where she’d sat with Rapunzel just weeks ago. Side by side, whispering secrets in the dark. It felt like a splinter in her chest.

For two weeks, Sobēl and Helcha took it in turns to venture out with Moira, getting the lay of the land, while Cassandra stayed behind. Fourteen days; full of distracted sparring, card games with Sobēl, exercising Owl under Helcha’s sharp-eyed supervision; feeling the whole time like her bones were trying to crawl out of her flesh.

Yesterday, Sobēl and Moira returned from their final excursion—into Herrfeld itself—grim-faced and quiet.

“It’s empty.”

”Varian—”

“There’s no one _there,_ Cassandra.”

“I think, Sobēl murmured, “we should cut our losses and return—”

“No! Varian’s my friend, I’m not leaving without—”

“He’s probably just in Anbruch—”

“You don’t _know_ —”

“—there weren’t any bodies; an evacuation—”

“What do you even expect to _find,_ honey?”

Cassandra won in the end. She and Moira left for Herrfeld at dawn this morning; and now—

She tests her weight against a spur of rock and climbs. Cold stings through her gloves. The ponderous droning of the black rocks makes her skin _itch._

A dozen feet off the ground, she finds a gap large enough to wriggle through, and her heart crawls into her mouth.

It’s a grave. A jagged sea of obsidian teeth. The flotsam of rubbled houses—shattered stone, splintering timber, clumps of frozen thatch—drift between the serrated ridges. Frost clings to the rocks like foam on ocean waves.

“I warned you,” Moira mutters.

They clamber down, carefully. The ground moans; a torturous grinding noise, as if the rocks are still churning under the surface. Nothing moves.

Her heartbeat grinds her nerves down to a sharp, bright point. The frosted air presses in close like a living thing, lost and lonely.

“It- it wasn’t this bad—”

She only saw Herrfeld from a distance after the storm, but no one seemed _worried._ Rattled, sure, but Quirin spoke as if the immediate crisis were over—

“Everyone,” Moira drawls, “probably just left in a hurry. Doesn’t seem like this happened overnight, honey.”

Cassandra closes her eyes. Now that she’s _here,_ she can see what Moira meant about the futility of this whole venture. But they’ve come this far; they might as well keep on.

“Come on.”

She ducks into one of the wider passages formed by the rocks. Moira follows, a silent, dour presence at her shoulder.

“We’re looking for a big stone house—”

“—whatever’s left of it—”

“—on the northern edge of the village.” Cassandra frowns. “Or… signs for an apothecary, I guess? Varian was taking care of the injured villagers there.”

They find what’s left of the village green; smashed market stalls, sundered houses; the ruins of a collapsed silo, bleeding grain over the snow. Fat grey rats whip out of sight as she and Caine crunch over the carnage. There are, as promised, no bodies anywhere.

Unease gnaws into her ribcage and nests there, a malignant, feathery, prowling thing. She knuckles her sternum through the folds of her cloak, trying to chase the feeling away, but it only sinks deeper with an anxious hiss.

She recognizes the Kardossh residence by the smell. A massive cluster of black rocks skewers the house, cracking open the dark pit of the cellar, which exhales an acrid, chemical stench into the cold. Remembering Eugene’s… colorful descriptions of the fumes in Varian’s laboratory, she says, “This is it.”

“Again,” Moira mutters, trailing behind Cassandra as they approach the house, “what are you looking to _find?_ ”

“I want to figure out what happened.”

“Well that seems pretty gods-damned _clear_ —”

Some of the roof has fallen in, but the house is still more or less intact. The front door sags in its splintering frame, half off its hinges; snow and debris litter the floorboards, which creak ominously when Cassandra steps over the threshold.

“Stay outside if you want. I don’t care.”

“Rocks keep growing,” Moira growls, following her. “People pack whatever they can carry and scram.” She prods open a door, squinting grumpily into the gloom. “…Kitchen. I mean, what did you expect to _happen,_ Cassandra?”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Yeah, well, that’ll teach me. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Besides the kitchen, there’s two bedrooms, both ransacked and stripped bare. It doesn’t look like the Kardosshes packed in a hurry; it looks like—

“Watchmen,” Moira says, giving the second bedroom a critical glance from the doorway.

“Or… looters.”

“Come on, honey. Criminals don’t toss a place like this; we hit hard and get out fast. _That?_ ” She jerks her chin at the overturned bed, spilling slashed sheets and straw over the floor. “That’s officer work.”

“…But… _why?_ ”

Moira shrugs. “Maybe Freddy pinned the rocks on the kid.”

“He wouldn’t—”

“ _Blame,_ ” Moira snarls, “is _all_ Corona cares about. Finding someone to point at when bad things happen. What did Frederic do when the blight came, Cassandra?”

“That’s not _fair_ —”

“Or when Gothel took the Princess?” She lunges closer, grabbing Cassandra’s shoulders to stop her from turning away. “You know, you _know_ what Corona’s like—why are you defending them?”

“I’m not defending anyth—”

“They _killed your family!_ ”

“Varian’s just a kid—”

“I was eight! Cassandra, you were _four!_ ”

“—he doesn’t deserve—”

“Did _we?_ ”

“ _No!_ ” Frustration wrenches her out of Moira’s grip; she pushes her fingers into her hair, heart stuttering as she gasps for air. “But it happened, and I can’t change that! I hated my parents for _years_ because of a _lie_ and they’re _dead_ and I can’t– I c- I can’t change that I’m never going to meet my cousins, I can’t _replace_ —”

“…Cassandra—”

“—and I, and I– he’s still my _dad._ ” Her teeth grit together, scraping the word to the bone; a pitiful, breathless noise trickles out of her, a feeble echo. “I’m t- I’m trying, but I can’t just– be angry and hate—and you wouldn’t let me stay in Socona,” she finishes with a resentful mutter. “I wanted to.”

“Hell.” Moira sighs, long and low. “I know you did. Is _that_ what this is about?”

“Maybe.” Grimacing, Cassandra straightens out of her defensive hunch. “I… I don’t know. He’s my friend. I want–”

“–to help.”

“And I know you think I’m being stupid, but I– you don’t have to _pick_ at me or, or—”

“I don’t—” Her hands settle on Cassandra’s shoulders again, gentler. “Look, I– am a pirate, alright? I sail around stealing from Corona and I take care of my own, but this– _hero_ thing, whatever… coping you’re doing, trying to fix—I don’t get it.” A wry smile quirks her lips. “But it’s not stupid. Jumping in without a plan is stupid, but not the rest of it.”

“…Thanks.”

Nodding, Moira steps away, flicking her hair out of her eyes with a light toss of her head. “So– you said Varian’s lab was in the cellar, yeah?”

“Right.”

“Won’t be much left if the King’s men tore it up,” she says briskly, nudging Cassandra out of the bedroom. “But we’ll take a look. If we don’t find anything—I figure our best bet’s to head for Quintonia.”

“…What?”

“Remember what I said in the last letter? About the rocks in Antares.”

“I’d really rather not–”

“Well, it was true,” Moira says, rather dryly. “I _did_ go to Antares, once, and it’s built on rocks just like these. Which means they’re a _thing._ There’ll be _scholarship._ If Rose hasn’t got a book about them tucked away somewhere, odds are she’ll know someone who does.”

They pause at the entrance to the cellar. The door dangles open, exposing sagging steps worn smooth by long years of use. Cassandra allows herself one second to hope against all odds they’ll find Varian down there; then, sighing, she lets it slip away.

Much as she hates the idea of _leaving,_ Moira… has a point. If the black rocks are a known phenomenon outside of Corona, better to consult with a scholar than scrabble after the breadcrumbs of a trail gone cold.

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Week and a half? Give or take. Quintonian weather can be dicey this time of year.”

“Okay. If we do find something today—”

“We’ll go after Varian first if we can,” Moira assures her, as they begin their fumbling descent into the noxious gloom of the cellar.

It lightens toward the bottom. Pale daylight trickles through the cracked foundation, tracing the laboratory with a bare whisper of illumination; it limns a hulking shape in the center of the room, gilds the sheet of oilcloth draped over it.

Powdery snow and shards of glass glitter on the counters. The oilcloth flutters in a cold draft pouring in from outside. Everything else is quiet and still.

“…Uh.”

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle as Cassandra edges past Moira, leaving the stairwell. Whatever the covered _thing_ is, it’s pressed against the column of rock that spitted the house, and the hum stings her cheeks as she approaches. The oilcloth crackles when she touches it, shedding splinters of frost.

“Help me with this,” she says.

Moira takes another corner, and together they fold the oilcloth back, revealing the slick, honey-gold crystal under—

“—the _hell!_ ”

Cassandra recoils. _Bodies– people._

_Twenty-six—_

Young and old, men and women, suspended inside the crystal; they wear fossilized rictuses of discomfort or fear. A few look like they might have been screaming when—

“…Stars, that’s his _dad–_ ”

“Varian’s?”

Quirin’s is the only face she recognizes; the harsh, heavy features his son did not inherit. Like the others, his face is contorted into a pained grimace. Her stomach churns.

“How– ”

“They were injured,” Moira says abruptly. “All of them. Look—”

She points. Cassandra shuts her eyes, gulping air to fortify herself against the wash of horror; when she looks again, shivering, she sees what Moira means. Save for Quirin, every person trapped in the crystal is dressed for bed. Bandages peek out from beneath loose nightshirts and dressing gowns.

The pieces fall into place with a nauseating _click._ She swallows. “…These were his _patients._ ”

“Mmmm. Seems like it.”

“And the guards—”

“Mm-hm.”

Moira slinks around the crystal to pick over the ransacked counters. Unsettled, Cassandra trails after her, drifting to the opposite end of the cellar.

Bare shelves line the walls. She rifles through a cupboard with nothing left in it but a few unlabeled vials of white salts. Tendrils of the crystal crawl over the floor and creep, vine-like, along the counters. Winter sunlight dapples over the translucent substance, firing it from dull amber to a deep, pure cobalt; she tries not to step on it.

“Cassandra.”

“Find something?”

Moira is shoulder-deep in one of the cabinets under the counter; when she emerges, triumphant, it’s with a sheaf of papers clutched in her fist. “Maybe.”

She swipes snow and laboratory detrius off the counter and fans out their prize in a splash of sunlight while Cassandra hurries to look over her shoulder. A tattered map of Corona, webbed in thin lines of red ink; notes, a confused mix of meticulous diagrams and cramped shorthand. One torn scrap bearing a loose sketch of the black rocks and, written in an untidy scrawl, the words _NÓR CSZÓK TURUL - ROOTS?_ ; another filled with jottings of minutes and measurements, maybe test results.

“He was studying the blight,” Moira says.

“What?”

“Here.”

She passes Cassandra a dog-eared page that looks like it was torn from a book, and Cassandra, eyebrows rising, reads:

_—fever, swiftly followed by chills and profound fatigue. Some patients required the concentrated efforts of several nurses to rouse from slumber, and it was common for the afflicted to lapse into fitful dozing in mid-conversation. Other common symptoms include rapid heartbeat, labored breathing, rashes, and bouts of delirium._

_This stage is also marked by the characteristically putrid smell of the afflicted, which grows pronounced soon after the onset of fever. It was this symptom that led to the adoption of mask-wearing among physicians and nurses whose sick-wards admitted a high volume of patients during the autumn of 1655; the charnel wards of Artois, in particular, became notorious for the practice of masking to alleviate the stench._

_Severe nausea and loss of any remaining appetite are typically the next symptoms to emerge, and mark the beginning of the fatal stage of the disease. Within hours or, in milder cases, days, the afflicted begin to vomit a mixture of bile, blood, and a dark, foul liquid evidently resulting from the onset of necrosis in—_

She sets the page down, slowly.

“…You don’t think the black rocks had anything to do with—”

Moira groans. “Black rocks are connected to the sundrop.” Her boot hits the counter; a hollow _pock_ sound. “Blight hits a couple months after _Freddy_ uproots the damn thing– now there’s rocks where the flower used to be…”

It sounds at least plausible. Frowning, Cassandra dredges the map out of the piled notes again. The red lines ramble over the paper terrain without any pattern she can discern; threaded close together in the mountains, and thinner in the plains. Herrfeld sits at a nexus where a half-dozen of them intersect. Socona…

There’s not a single line on the map that doesn’t curl through Socona sooner or later.

She rakes her teeth over her lip. _Map of the rocks? Except there’s no rocks in Socona, besides the ones at the plinth…_

_Could they be underground?_

“You said Sirin… stopped the blight,” she mumbles. “How?”

“It’s just a tonic. I don’t know– Syconium brews the stuff up in the peatland. It’s magic.”

“So nothing to do with the rocks.”

“Don’t ask _me,_ ” Moira says, sounding vexed. “Sitheach could probably get a message to Sirin, if you really wanna know.”

“I don’t–” One emotional outburst was _more_ than enough for the day. She doesn’t want to think about Sirin, or Socona, or the toxic morass of her feelings— “She’s got enough on her plate, I think.”

“Alright.”

“And it might not even be related—”

“Sure.”

“Varian’s not in Socona,” Cassandra mutters, skimming her fingertips over the map. “If– _that_ is why the guards came—” She gestures jerkily over her shoulder. Wounded villagers encased in crystal; she can’t imagine that… endeared Varian to anyone. “—he’s either in prison—”

“—in which case there’s nothing we can do—”

“—right, but if he escaped, I’ll bet he’d try to stay close to the rocks…”

Moira sighs. “Searching the forest’d be a _big_ undertaking, honey–”

“Or,” Cassandra says, “we could look here.”

She taps her thumb against the north-east corner of the map, where another snarl of red lines coils beneath Mount Ghisa.

“On top of a _mountain?_ He’s _fourteen._ ”

“Ghisa isn’t a difficult climb if you’re coming from the north. He could’ve taken the road to Adlerberg– here– and then there’s trails leading up to the old mines.” Cassandra drums her fingers along the edge of the map. “I know it’s a long shot, but it’s also not… out of our way, if we’re going to Quintonia.”

Moira gives her a slow glance, equal parts exasperated and amused, and drawls, “Well, look at that. You _can_ make plans.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Smirking, Moira sweeps Varian’s notes into a messy stack and shoves them into her satchel. “It’s gonna take most of the day to get back to the _Zampermin,_ ” she says. “Cast off in the morning; if the weather’s good we can hit Ghisa around three o’clock, which’ll give us a couple hours of daylight to poke around the summit. If the kid’s there, we’ll pick him up. Either way, we head out for Quintonia at sundown. Sound good?”

“Why the summit?”

“If the kid’s wanted,” Moira says, shooing her toward the stairs, “he’s not going to be in town, and with the _Zampermin_ we can drop anchor and abseil straight down. It’s faster and safer.” She hums. The stairs creak beneath them as they climb to the ground floor. “And the old Demanitus estate is up there, yeah?”

“It’s in ruins, but yes.”

“How long’s it been abandoned?”

“…Why?”

“Couple centuries?”

“Try fifteen. _Why?_ ”

“Figure there’s any books left?”

“…Books? Wh–” Eyes narrowing as they emerge into the clearer air of the hall, Cassandra turns in time to catch a smirk. “Is this about your _thing_ with Rosalia Morcant?”

“It is,” Moira says, dignified, “a business arrangement. And yes, honey, I’m not made of coin. Gotta make up for all the rich merchant ships I’m _not_ pillaging _some_ how. And since we’re stopping anyway…”

 _Great._ “Fine. We’ll add looting to my ever-growing list of crimes.”

“ _That’s_ the spirit.” Moira claps her shoulder, grinning, and leads the way out of the house.

The air seems colder, and brighter; the sun creeping higher in the sky, and the shadows in retreat. Cassandra inhales, and blows out a long stream of mist.

“You’re a terrible influence.”

“Aw, honey. You’re _too_ kind.”

## ❦

Varian blinks.

Cold seeps between the bookcases, coated with thin grey layers of dust. He stumbles inside, sluggish, through a shaft of bitter sunlight filtering through the cracked ceiling. The map Arieta drew for him crinkles in his grip.

His head feels like it’s glazed in ice. He hasn’t slept well in– nightmares, piled on nightmares. Fatigue—

Liquescent shadows pour off the empty shelves, eddying around his chest as he sloshes through the pooling darkness. Dizziness makes him wobble; something black flickers in the corner of his eye, but when he turns, there’s nothing there.

_Rats? Doesn’t… matter._

_Get what you came for._

Dust muffles his footsteps. The map smudges as he worries it between his fingers. _One, two, three, four–_

Thirty-seventh bookcase on the left from the east door. Bottom shelf. A removable false panel. Inside—notes. Arieta brushed his bangs out of his eyes earlier and murmured something else he can’t remember now, and the hollow space where the words should be stings when he probes at it.

It’s so cold.

How long has it been since he left Herrfeld? A month? A blur. Varian isn’t sure it matters. Nightmares, translating fragments of Carthamine’s book, brewing and brewing and brewing. A tinny taste lines his mouth.

Vegetation crawls over the shelves around the corner. Lush vines freckled with tiny black burrs, flowering– yellow blossoms—a cloying, fragrant smell. He blinks. It’s gone. Nothing but wood and dust and snow.

_Keep it together, Varian. Keep it–_

Scrubbing at his eyes, he shuffles forward. _Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty—_

— _or great Ri Ni’n, the Tree of Citir; borne of sublime seed? The old legends speak of golden fruit, shining like the stars, so sweet it drove men to madness for but one taste. Everything covets; all the world is wanting. It is hunger at the bottom—_

_—thirty-three, thirty four._

Varian fills his lungs with icy air, kneeling before the bookcase. The fevered rant he translated last night throbs beneath the surface of his thoughts; a maw opening—

He skims his fingertips along the bottom shelf until he finds the panel Arieta described; it depresses beneath his hand, then springs up with an audible _click._

Shadows, inside. A stack of brittle vellum. Gnarled sigils blink out of the darkness, inked in green. A script of briars. He reaches down—

_—descend, descend, to the vulturous feast! All things rot and die; when hunger calls the fangs must grow in answer. One day the seas will rise and the skies will fall; she will swallow the sun and the moon and the sitient earth until blooms the black garden, satiated—_

“…Varian?”

Yelping, he crushes the notes against his chest and spins around. “C- _Cass?_ ”

She gapes at him, surprise sharpening into worry as she looks at him. There’s another woman crowding behind her shoulder, scrutinizing him with dark, unreadable eyes.

“That’s _him?_ I’ll be damned.”

“You okay, kid? You look–”

“C-Cass! Hey! I didn’t– heh, I’m, I-I’m fine. I didn’t expect to see you… _here._ ” Panic threatens to close his throat. _What is she– how? Why?!_ “What, hn, what are you—”

“We found… I mean, we saw–”

_Oh, no. Oh no oh no–_

“…Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Cass steps closer, sinking into a crouch, her palms out placatingly. “You’re not in trouble,” she says, her voice low. “We just want to help—can you tell us what happened?”

The vellum crackles. Varian leans back against the bookcase, breathing hard. There’s no condemnation in Cass’s eyes, just curiosity and concern; and her– friend?—

“This is Moira,” Cassandra adds, following his gaze. “You can trust her. She’s a friend.”

“I- I…”

If he bolts, maybe he can lose them among the stacks and find Arieta before they catch him. But they’re bigger than he is and probably faster, and if he runs, won’t that make him look guilty? And then they’ll drag him away from his research and _ruin everything—_

Licking his lips, Varian whispers, “It- it was an accident.”

“I know,” Cass says, very softly. “We’re not mad at you, I promise– how long have you been up here? Have you been sleeping…?”

“I- I—”

Arieta prodded him awake before dawn; green eyes vivid and bright with excitement. _Hurry, hurry_ — she hustled him into the caverns, and then– the tarry sludge of his nightmares twined with the subterranean darkness and it’s a confusing, sticky mass in his memories now.

“…there was a door…”

Then dusty, frosted air. The map pressed into his hands. _Go–_

“A door?”

“I’m fine,” Varian says, tossing his chin. “Cass– thanks, but I really need to go, I’ve got what I came for.”

“Kid, wait—”

_Go!_

He runs.

## ❦

“—Varian, wait—”

Moira catches her elbow before she can set off after Varian; Cassandra twists around, intending to shake her off, but the look on the pirate’s face stops her.

“…do you hear that?”

“I don’t–”

Then she _does:_ a rumble, punctuated by a muffled _bang._ She feels the aftershocks of the sound vibrating through the soles of her boots, and her heart sinks.

_What now?_

“Swords out, come on– it’s coming from _there._ ”

Moira takes the lead as they hurry along the stacks in the direction Varian fled, away from the noise. More _bangs_ thunder through the ruins; dust trickles from the crumbling ceiling.

It’s getting _louder._ Gripping her broadsword tighter, Cassandra hisses, “ _Varian?_ Where’d–”

_Bang. Bang. Bang–_

_BANG._

A tremendous, squealing _roar_ fills the air. The floor bucks hard enough to throw her onto her knees, and Cassandra gasps as pain lances through her knee. Moira shouts something—her hand closes around Cassandra’s wrist, and they’re staggering up again together—the ceiling quakes—

“ _Come ON!”_

Falling, falling, the ceiling, the bookcases– a mad scramble, raining dust and small debris—the whole library collapsing around them—

“—shit, _shit—”_

Sunlight spills through a crack in the walls, and Moira shoves her through first. Crusted snow rushes up to meet her; soft powder underneath. Cassandra rolls out of the way, panting, as Moira tumbles out of the ruins and the library moans one last time before cratering in on itself. A thick plume of dust mushrooms over the shattered stone. Shock and adrenaline ice over her mind.

“…What… the _hell_ –”

“Varian,” Cassandra whispers. She struggles to her feet in the snow, heart in her mouth. _No, no–_

Something groans; something creaks, a hulking, shuddering shape shrouded by the dust. Cold dread floods Cassandra’s stomach, blotting out everything else.

“What is _that—”_

Metal shrieks when it moves. Six glowing green eyes pierce the scrim of debris like lamps.

“Uh–”

“ _Shit—”_

It stomps closer, emerging from the dust: a monstrous construct of rusted metal and glass, towering over them, raising an arm—

“Run,” Moira says, plucking at her arm. “ _Run_ —”

The massive arm hammers into the snow behind them as they dive out of the way, and the shock of the impact nearly throws Cassandra off her feet again.

_Lord Demanitus built automatons–_

Fragments of stories stream through her mind in a disorienting whirl—machines drilled the Adlerberg mines and supplanted the border garrisons—

She makes the mistake of glancing over her shoulder as the sound of screaming metal shreds the wind again, and her stomach drops. The automaton heaves itself out of the snow and bounds after them.

“It’s gaining!”

Moira swears. “Split up—hit the joints! It’s old!”

They peel away from each other, and Cassandra, skidding in the snow, dives under another swipe of the automaton’s arm. Her heart kicks into a frantic pace; her broadsword flashes, slicing the oily black webbing strung between the body’s casing and the—

_Not webbing._

Black ichor splatters the snow, and vines explode out of the gap in the casing. The automaton rears. The vines whip through the air, coiling like serpents around the automaton’s arm and head; Cass throws herself out of the path of another flailing blow, and she’s behind it now, and there’s a panel missing from the back of its casing, exposing writhing mass of tarnished copper gears and black tendrils and oozing oil and tar.

Screaming, she gathers herself, leaps, and thrusts her broadsword into the gap.

## ❦

Nausea doubles him over. Varian moans, sagging against the crumbling plaster. Dust chokes the air. He’s dimly aware of Arieta tugging the notes from his hands, a pleased intake of air, a murmur of, “Yes, that’s perfect.”

“C- Cass– she—”

His head spins. The library collapsed so _fast_ —

“It’s for the better, dear,” Arieta croons. She rakes her fingers through his hair, tugging his face up so she can peer into his eyes; hers glitter like emeralds, even in the gloom of the cramped vestibule. “You know what you need to do to free your father, don’t you? They would have _stopped_ you.”

A feeble protest dies in his throat, smothered by the dust.

“You don’t want that, do you? After all the work we’ve done?”

“B- but—”

“Hush; it’s midwinter tonight. Come along.”

The door forms behind her. Brambles slither along the walls, twisting together into a drooping lintel of thorns; the wall bubbles into blackness. Arieta nudges his shoulder.

“Go,” she breathes. “You know what to do, dear. You’re ready. I have one more errand to run before the night falls; then I’ll find you, and the dark will come, and you can rest.”

Exhaustion ripples through him. Varian squeezes his eyes shut, sighing; then nods, and obediently shuffles through the dripping curtain. The familiar bitter scent of Arieta’s laboratory embraces him as he stumbles through into the caverns.

_It’s almost over._

Smiling wearily, he shuffles across the lab to double-check—again—his bundle of supplies for tonight. Two dozen vials of shimmering golden liquid gleam in their nest of padded velvet; the blue splinter of his father’s broken talisman glints at him when he touches it.

Something…tingles in the back of his mind. An itch; something he forgot. It slips through his fingers like smoke when he reaches for it.

Varian shrugs.

 _Probably,_ he thinks, as he scrambles up the ladder to compare the salvaged notes against Carthamine’s writings, _it wasn’t very important._

## ❦

“—andra! Look at me, damn it–”

 _Darkness;_ a pungent smell, of mold and soil after rain, and a jasmine sweetness; and in her ears a rhythm– not a heartbeat, _deeper;_ a drum, a gong, an ocean crash. Black waves crowned in hoarfrost; basalt cliffs etched by the rain and she drips down, and down, and down, soaking in the spray. Brine slicks her mouth. She laughs—

“ _Cassandra!_ ”

Sharp pain breaks against her cheek. Cassandra jerks, coughs, her eyes snapping open. A hazy blur—the sky a violence of blue; a pale face, dark eyes. Red hair. _Moira._

Groaning, she pushes Moira out of the way and rolls over, spitting up black sludge onto the snow. Her heart feels swollen and heavy in her chest.

“What the _hell_ were you _thinking?_ ” Moira hisses.

Cassandra lifts her head, blinking muzzily. The… automaton is a heap of shredded metal in the snow, bleeding oil and–

Vines.

_Oh._

Fuzzy memories swim behind her closed eyelids. Black liquid spewing out of the automaton after she drove her broadsword deep into the machinery, stinging–

“I’m fine,” she rasps.

“Like hell,” Moira replies. “Come on, honey, let’s get you back to the ship…”

She drapes Cassandra’s arm over her shoulders; heaves, while Cassandra fumbles to relocate her feet and marshal her wobbling legs. They stand; or Moira stands, and Cassandra slumps against her and hacks up more dark water.

“Th- that was magic,” she says, spluttering.

“ _No,_ ” Moira gasps, “ _really?_ ”

“Th- shh.” They stumble forward, Moira still bearing the brunt of her weight. The numbness in her limbs ebbs, leaving hundreds of small, gnawing teeth in its wake.

 _Magic._ Not like the pearly currents that hold the _Zampermin_ aloft when she’s airborne; not the cold, dry itch of Sitheach’s– corpses. Stagnant and dank and deep. Like a swamp.

Like Sirin’s magic.

_Zhan Tiri’s magic._

Cassandra takes a rattling breath, then another, and eases away from Moira. Her legs tremble, but hold her weight. “We need to go to Herzingen,” she announces.

“…I see you hit your head when the automaton fell—”

“Rapunzel,” Cassandra says, aiming for a collected stride and landing on more of a stagger, “is in danger. I think.”

“How d’you figure?”

“I just—” She stumbles; Moira’s hand on her arm keeps her upright. “Zhan Tiri is still trapped. Right?”

“…Right…?”

“When S- Sirin tried to free him she– she did _something_ with the sundrop, that’s why she needed Rapunzel.” Roots spilling out of Rapunzel’s forearm; roots squirming up from the earth. _Hungry._ Why hadn’t she made the connection before? “N-now– we f-find Varian, and he’s a mess, and he runs away and an _automaton_ filled with Zhan Tiri’s magic attacks us—and the- the black rocks, the sundrop, the _sickness,_ Zhan Tiri– it’s all connected, so we need—”

“I’m _not_ taking you to Herzingen.”

“Then I’ll go by _myself,_ ” Cassandra snarls, tugging her arm out of Moira’s grip. “My friends are in _danger_ —”

“We agreed,” Moira says through gritted teeth, “we’d go to Quintonia. You can’t just- just jump to magic-addled conclusions and go charging into danger—”

“Raps needs to know—”

Moira laughs. It’s an ugly sound, venomous and harsh. “Do you even _hear_ yourself? You—” she grabs Cassandra’s wrist again, squeezing hard enough to hurt “— _cannot_ —go—to Herzingen.”

“The tunnels,” Cassandra whispers. Her heart is hammering again. “Please– _please,_ I know them better than anyone; th- there’s an entrance a few miles north of the island, it’s hidden—”

“Write her a _letter._ ”

“Letters can be intercepted—I need to _see her_.”

Silence. The wind blows, snatching at her cloak and streaming through the long strands of hair come loose from Moira’s braid; Cassandra shivers, and Moira’s expression pinches into a small, mocking smile.

“I see,” she says, so quiet it’s almost lost to the wind. “I see what this is. You’re _infatuated_ with her.”

Soft words; but they slip like a dagger between her ribs, and all the air rushes out of her lungs. “No I’m _not_ — _!_ ”

“Sure, sure,” Moira says, lips curling. “Of course you’re not—you’re just _desperate_ to get yourself killed to warn her about some vague threat that _might_ exist. Right? That’s what _friends_ do—”

“I’m not– I’m not _like that_ —”

“Oh?” Moira strides into her space; Cassandra scuttles backward, panic setting her veins alight.

“Not like… what?” Moira purrs. “Go on. Finish that thought.”

“I’m n-”

“Because _I_ am, and I’d _love_ to hear what you—”

“ _Stop_ —”

Her legs fold her into the snow; the sudden cold feels good. Clarifying. Cassandra presses her hands to her face, scratching her cheeks against the granules of frost clinging to her gloves, and shudders.

“J- just– just stop,” she whispers.

Moira crouches in front of her, but makes no movement to close the distance; dimly, she’s grateful for that.

 _It’s different for you,_ she wants to say. _You’re a pirate. You can do whatever you_ want—

Her shoulders hunch.

“Sh- she’s my friend.” Anything… more than that is… hers. _Her_ secret to guard, crushed down into the darkest recesses of her soul where it can’t… hurt anyone. “A- and it was my job to protect her, and I couldn’t, and now she’s in danger again. I _know_ she is.”

Oily wisps of _certainty_ slither in her mind. She can still taste the brine.

“…Please. I’ll stay in the tunnels; I’ll be careful. No one will even know I’m there but her.”

She peeks through her fingers. Moira’s scowling toward the western horizon, towards Herzingen, her jaw set in hard lines.

“Tunnel entrance,” she says, voice flat. “North of the island. How far?”

“Two or three miles?”

“On the coast?”

“Nn– about a mile inland.”

“Any buildings around?”

“No—it’s forested.”

Moira grumbles a string of curses under her breath. “So it gets pretty dark after sunset.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to _regret_ this,” Moira mutters sourly. She gets to her feet, holding out a hand to help Cassandra up after her. “Come on, honey. Let’s go save your _girlfriend._ ”


	27. Chapter 26: Night Closes Round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)
> 
> CW: Self-harm. Violence.

###  **Chapter 26: Night Closes Round**

Sunset paints the crimson sky. Sugracha dawdles at the crest of the bridge into Herzingen, smiling into the wind. It stalks bitter off the sea tonight; the full moon dangles above the mountains, swollen and bloodied, like a distended tick.

She brushes her fingertips against the ice-cold balustrade. Seeds drip from her fingernails, small and black, burrowing like maggots into the pores of the aging limestone.

To wait.

Humming, Sugracha continues into Herzingen at a languid pace; her cane clicks down, planting little briars between the cobbles.

The guard posted by the bridge calls out a good evening as she passes, but she leaves it to gutter out, unacknowledged. She breezes past the crackling brazier and continues up Osiander Street. Evening crowds meander by, huddled in their coats and scarves, carrying themselves with the placid ease of a people who have too long known peace.

Her lips carve a grin into the gathering night.

 _Click_ —and roots crawl down, and down, and down into the honeycombed earth where the dark lies waiting; _click_ —and the island twitches like a beast riddled with parasites, a hollowed carapace about to crack—

She sets a course for the smithy.

In six weeks, she found no opportunity to relieve Herzingen of its royal blacksmith. Xavier Besim is a man too well-known and liked for his death to pass without inciting a… _troublesome_ furor; so she has been careful. She has rifled through the royal archives while the palace slept, and learnt many interesting things; she has nested like a spider in neglected crannies and forgotten tunnels, dripping venom into her little flies. Crouching, and cramped, and _hidden._

Sixteen hundred years stuffed into a jar of clay!—How she aches to germinate and grow—to _stretch—_ and to bask in the black radiance of her Lady’s return! No more of this claustrophobic _skulking._

Rosy light bathes the blacksmith’s yard. Xavier has his back to the entrance, feeding a long, cherry-red bar of steel into the forge’s glowing maw, but his shoulders go rigid when she steps over the threshold.

“Oh, that’s clever, dear.” Sugracha smirks, tracing the faint sigils scratched into the doorframe. Fear blossoms in his eyes as he turns. “Dainty work. Ferr’s, isn’t it? Of course. She does so love to categorize– but tsk, _tsk,_ dear, didn’t it puzzle you that Zhan Tiri came close enough to trip your little—” She rakes a piceous claw through the sigils; the magic sparks blue and dies with a whimper. “—warning bell?”

His paralytic surprise fractures into panic, and he lunges for his hammer; but her vines strike like vipers. Chuckling, Sugracha slams him against the forge. He dangles in her grip, gasping.

“Y-y– _you—”_

“Isn’t this _auspicious?_ ” As she slinks closer, the vines crawl up his chest to coil covetously around his throat. Thin tendrils slither into his beard, probing at the lips he clamps shut. “You know, I had no _idea_ Demanitus had… children. He wasn’t especially paternal.” She sniffs. “I suppose he abandoned them when he left for Aphelion, mm? Long before _I_ met him.”

The first of her vines squirms between his gritted teeth and curls, twisting to lever his jaw open. He gags; she leans in closer, conspiratorial.

“So you can imagine my surprise when I learnt _you_ were of his benighted lineage. You have my deepest sympa—”

He wrenches the bar from the forge and slams it into her face. Sugracha recoils, shrieking; her flesh sizzles, the vines slacken, and through the conflagration of pain she feels the blacksmith thrash himself free.

She roars. Her vines tear blindly through the brick hood of the forge. Dust and smoke and embers burst like spores, and Sugracha hurtles after him, crashing into a rack of tools—it collapses, tongs and hammers clattering—

Xavier kicks open a door at the back of the yard and dives inside. It slams behind him, and her vines pile against it; thorns chewing through a thin layer of wood, then crumpling against a core of solid steel.

Hissing, Sugracha unravels—brambles and bone-shards spooling out and _out_ until she fills the whole yard, tearing the blistered, ruined skin away from her face in a spray of black ichor—and rams into the door. It booms like a struck gong, but it holds. Dark blue enchantments oil the surface, glinting, faultless.

“ _Hide,_ then! _Coward_ — _!_ ”

Boots pound on the cobbles outside. Watchmen, drawn like moths to flame by the commotion. Sugracha snaps her teeth, wreathed in smoke and cinders, and wraps her vines around the barrels of quenching oil lined up against the wall.

Let them all _burn._

The first guard enters, shouting, in the same instant the barrels smash into the smoldering wreckage of the forge.

Fire rips the air apart. Sugracha explodes out of the smithy, dripping tar and mantled in greasy emerald flame. Screams of terror and pain sunder the peaceful night; she laughs, she laughs, she—

“ _Now!_ ” she shrieks.

Soot and blood smear the bronze carapaces of the King’s little foot-soldiers; their halberds find nothing but chitin and pitch and they _howl_ as her thorns claw into their ranks. The cobblestones of Osiander Street ripple like water.

_Now, now, now—!_

Her strangling roots, her spider’s web, her fledgling briars; power whips the earth, and the earth, obeisant, heaves and ruptures.

Like infant wasps from a beetle’s husk, thorny brambles erupt from the ground, raining down dislodged cobbles and frozen clods. Thickets devour the street and swallow the lime-washed shops in a symphony of terror; and below, below, serpentine vines engulf the bridge.

Sugracha lifts a hand, black talons gleaming in the firelight; she makes a fist, and the vines begin to _squeeze._ The bridge creaks, and cracks, and crumbles; then, with a violent squeal of breaking stone, the vines tear it apart. Shattered masonry plunges into the seething blackness of the sea.

Shocked silence rolls up the island, like the judder in a fearful heartbeat. Dust blossoms in pale plumes, tainted reddish by the last embers of twilight.

As the screaming begins anew, Sugracha folds herself down; panting, nearly human again, cloaked in smoke and briars.

Deep beneath her feet, far below the roots she sowed, the teeth of the moon lay singing. Veins of shadow coiled in the bedrock. Sugracha smiles, and plucks at her snares, her reins, her puppets’ strings. Envenomed little flies buzzing, buzzing, trapped inside her web.

“It’s time, my dears,” she croons. “You know what to do.”

## ❦

“—secure the perimeter, but until we know more I can’t recommend—”

“—evacuation by boat is our only—”

“—consider Osiander Street a hostage situation—”

Gilbert strides into the war room, punctuating the cacophony of shouts with the _bang_ of the doors hitting the walls. His heart thunders, but he feels steady on his feet. Capable of threading the eye of this storm.

“Gilbert!” Relief tinges Frederic’s haggard expression. “Good, we have need of your council—the Separatists are—”

“I’m aware,” Gilbert says curtly. Captain Noland and the other men of his task force file in behind him as he stops at the foot of the table; he takes note of the grain of suspicion in Sir Peter’s face, the blank panic in Nigel’s, distress in varying shades on Ludolf’s, Fitzherbert’s, and–

Strongbow’s presence gives him a second’s pause, but the man has soot on his coat and a bloodied lip; he must have been near Osiander Street when the attack began.

“I did not come to offer my _council,_ ” he adds.

“…Excuse me?”

He feels an urge to pace to the window and strikes it down; better, to look his brother in the eye while he does what he must. Gilbert stands straighter in the reddish glare of the fires, instead, and says, “Your methods have failed. Your hesitation has brought Corona to this moment, Frederic; there are Separatists in Herzingen, and dozens of good men have already died by their hand. This cannot be allowed to continue. _I_ will not allow it.”

Sir Peter lowers his hand to the hilt of his broadsword, and Gilbert feels a flicker of irritation. “What are you saying, Sir?” the Commander says, stiff.

“Frederic,” Gilbert replies, “is not the leader Corona needs. I am sorry it had to come to this, but—”

“Gilbert, this is _outrageous_ —”

“You cannot—”

The doors to the war room slam open once more, and everyone jumps. Gilbert turns, reaching for his sword, but there is no Separatist at the door; only Xavier Besim, bloodied and singed just as Strongbow is, staggering over the threshold.

“…Mr. Besim—?”

Xavier lists against the doorframe and takes several wheezing gasps before he finds his voice; then pushes himself upright and says, hoarsely, “A scion of Zhan Tiri is attacking the city.”

“ _What?!_ ”

Coughing, Xavier parts the line of Gilbert’s men and strides to the table, onto which he drops a large, leather-bound tome. “The scions were Zhan Tiri’s closest, most loyal disciples,” he rasps. “He rewarded them with incredible power—”

“But Lord Demanitus destroyed them!” Nigel cries.

“ _Imprisoned_ them. One has escaped.”

“How?!”

“I… do not know, but I am certain.” Grimacing, he lifts a hand to his throat. “She attacked me, then– the destruction of Osiander Street is her doing.”

“… _Alone?_ ”

“Indeed. Your Majesty, the Princess is in grave danger—"

Fitzherbert jolts forward. “This scion. She’ll want to free her master—”

“—meaning she’ll need the sundrop,” Xavier finishes with a nod. “I know a few… tricks that may help—”

“Anything,” Frederic says at once, while Gilbert’s lips thin. _Tricks. Magic–_ “Please, Xavier, anything you can do will be appreciated—”

“Me and Lance will go with you,” Fitzherbert says. “We’ll make sure she’s safe, Sir.”

They hurry out, leaving a heavy, unsettled silence in their wake. Gilbert clears his throat.

“Even in this dire hour, you would sacrifice principle to protect your daughter. _Magic,_ Fred! It is the root of all this—”

Indignation sparks in Frederic’s eyes, but Gilbert cuts off the protest before it can begin.

“You are a father first, Frederic, and a king second. In peaceful times, perhaps, that is not an issue, but _now?_ ” He sets his hands on the table and leans closer, willing Frederic to set aside stubborn pride to _hear_ him. “Are you prepared to lead a kingdom at war? Against demon-worshippers who flourished by your own inaction, your willingness to turn a blind eye to sorcerers in your own court?”

Frederic’s mouth presses into a hard, thin line.

“I am,” Gilbert says calmly. “Abdicate, and let us lay this to rest now; otherwise…”

He nods to Captain Noland and the other men lined up behind him, seeing no need to fill in his implication further. Swords make the point far better than his own word.

“You cannot seize power by force,” Sir Peter says flatly. “Not while I am the Commander—”

Gilbert scoffs. “The King’s Watch no longer answers to you, _Sir._ You have let the Separatists run wild to slaughter your men with impunity; you dug in your heels and refused to see reason when your _ward_ confessed to treason. You command the Watch in name alone.”

“Oh, if we’re speaking of _treason_ —”

“I don’t want violence between us, Gilbert,” Frederic says, and though his voice is low it cuts cleanly across Sir Peter’s furious snarl.

“Nor do I, brother.” Gilbert tilts his head. It is all so simple; he wonders that they cannot see it. “But the choice is in your hands.”

“ _Gilbert,_ ” Ludolf interjects, with terrible urgency; but Gilbert meets his horror-struck gaze, and whatever he intended to say, he swallows it, sinking into his seat.

Frederic closes his eyes. A nerve throbs in his jaw, and Gilbert stifles his impatience, watching him deliberate.

“…Very well.”

“Your Majesty—”

“You win, Gilbert,” Frederic murmurs through clenched teeth. “I assume you’ve prepared the formal papers already. I’ll sign and assent.”

“Good.” At once, the air seems lighter; Gilbert gestures for Captain Noland, who strides forward to pass the declaration of abdication across the table. “Thank you, for listening to reason.”

“ _Reason,_ ” Sir Peter scoffs; but otherwise all is solemn quiet. Frederic’s quill scratches over the parchment; Nigel’s hands tremble as he prepares the wax for the seal.

Then it’s done. Gilbert does not smile—this triumph is not a joyful one—but something in him does ease; the dreadful, helpless tension he has carried for months.

“Captain Noland,” he says, “Please escort Frederic to his quarters; see to it that he and Arianna remain secured until _this_ —” he nods out the window “—has been dealt with.”

“Sir.”

Frederic makes a low, sardonic sound, but he goes without protest; Ludolf, pale, hurries after him, and Gilbert makes a mental note to keep an eye on their younger brother until he… accustoms himself to this new state of affairs.

As they depart, Gilbert turns to Sir Peter and raises his eyebrows. “Noland will take over command of the Watch,” he says. “Beyond that, Sir… what happens now is up to you. Where does your loyalty lie? With Frederic, or with Corona?”

 _Or,_ Gilbert thinks, _with your traitorous ward?_

But he doesn’t believe Sir Peter has fallen _that_ far. He is an honorable man, at his core; however compromised, however tarnished the surface has become.

Stony-faced, Sir Peter lowers his head. “Corona, Sir,” he grinds out. “Always.”

“Good. Then we can attend to the crisis; I have already sent men to secure—”

The floor rolls beneath him. There is a sound like great slabs of stones crashing together. Nigel cries out in alarm; Gilbert seizes the edge of the table to steady himself as the whole palace _sways._

“…Stars above, what _now?!_ ”

## ❦

Rapunzel stumbles back, panting, to examine the portrait. Tears sting her eyes; her hands tremble, fingers crabbed by throbbing pains, as she wipes them away.

_It’s done. It’s ready!_

Cassandra’s—

 _(_ … _no.)_

— _her_ macilent face, pale as midnight snow, lifts to the sky. She is beautiful. Her mouth, a dark slash of cruel mirth; candescent green embers gleam in the hollow, inky pools of her eyes. Beneath her diaphanous skin crawls a delicate lacework of black veins, and tendrils of shadowy hair slither against her cheeks, shedding feathers to a lacerating gale.

The paintbrush slips through her fingers. Shivering, Rapunzel cradles her aching hands to her chest; a sob lodges in her throat.

Horns crest from her skull, curling; like a dark crown, draped in garlands of briars and rose petals and stained by runnels of cochineal sap. She wears a mantle of feathers and roses and fur, her arms wound with ivy and gloved in grime.

In her hands, she cradles the withered brown petals of the sundrop flower. Its pallid roots spill through her fingers, pitifully coiled, crisping to charcoal at the tips; and the moon, the moon, the bladed scythe of the moon cuts the velvet night with its silver smile.

_Flower-Maker, Sun-Eater, Lady of Forests and Mother of Thorns—!_

_The Lady, the Lady, the—_

Breathless with tears, Rapunzel pushes up her sleeves and hurries to her bedside, where the spiny murex shells Mrs. Sugarby gave her sit waiting. Her heart hammers an ecstatic rhythm as she picks one up and tests her thumb against the point of its largest spike. Blood wells from her punctured flesh.

Dimly, she hears Pascal hiss, but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters but this. The pain under her skin that eats her alive; and the shell, sharp and slicked in blood. Her hand, pierced in a dozen places, clutching tighter. The long, vermillion scar that traces the outside of her left arm, which pulsates as she brings the thorns of the shell against it.

_Locked inside towers and trapped behind walls; every mistake another chain hung round her throat; the lark sings in its cages of stone but can never test the strength of its wings._

_—a tragedy writ in worry and fear—_

For eighteen years, Rapunzel waited for rescue, and for six months she has floundered in this role she never chose. She has been so _afraid;_ numbed by terror to the whispers of her heart.

_It is yours. It has always been yours, to choose, or to hide. No shackles bind you now; nothing but brittle expectation and your own enfeebled will._

_The choice is yours._

_Set yourself free, little lark._

Laughing, she plunges the barbs into her flesh.

Spurting blood extinguishes the pain, and as her eyes swim with released tears, she feels a _thrum_ in her chest; familiar and strange, like a flitter of wings, like the twitch of a seedling breaking through soil. Power, stirred from slumber.

Rapunzel drops the shell, lifting her hands to the firelight pouring through her windows. Blood mingled with honey-gold sap flows in rivulets down her arms, and her heart shudders, and her mouth floods with the taste of summertime.

“I’m listening,” she whispers. “I’m done hiding—”

Pale green tendrils creep through the punctures, twining around her wrists. Frail little buds spindle from the delicate sprouts; tiny leaves unfurl, tickling her skin, and Rapunzel laughs, breathless with wonder—

A knock against her bedroom door shatters the moment. From the other side, Eugene calls, “Rapunzel? Can we come in—?”

Panic lances through her. She hurtles at the balcony doors, which open with a bang; the piled snow stings her bare feet when she races outside.

“—Rapunzel—!”

The roots of the moonstone nest in the bedrock, crooning for her attention, and Rapunzel throws out her hands and thinks, _I’m here, I’m listening, help me, please—_

Eugene pounds against the door, frantic now, and shouts that he’s coming in, but he’s too late.

Black rock bursts from the frozen lawn below, hammering into the side of the palace in its eagerness to reach her; behind her, the bedroom door slams open, and Rapunzel glances over her shoulder long enough to meet Eugene’s eyes.

“ _Rapunzel_ — _!_ ”

Horror crashes over his face—he _runs_ —and Rapunzel, smiling softly, throws herself over the balustrade. His scream follows her down; the cold air whistles past—

—and the rocks lift smoothly to catch her, bleeding warmth, their song crescendoing triumph.

They bear her down, down, down, into the shattered mouth of the labyrinth. Rapunzel tumbles from their grip and onto the dusty stones of tunnels long disused; slivers of glacial light dance beneath the surface of the rocks to show her the way through the shadows.

Beaming, she flicks one hand—the lawn knits itself back together above her head, blotting out the stars and ensuring she will not be followed—and charges forward into the dark.

## ❦

Eugene grips the balustrade, rigid with shock. _He can’t see Rapunzel_ —he can’t see— His traitorous imagination paints horrible pictures of her body shattered on the lawn, of blood on the snow– but he can’t see _her,_ she’s gone, and when he screams her name the wind tears his voice away—

“–gene! _Eugene!_ Don’t you _dare—!_ ”

It isn’t until Lance seizes him around the middle and hauls him back that he becomes conscious of the decision to leap after her and the stream of his thoughts lurches in a saner direction. Eugene goes limp, allowing Lance to drag him back inside.

“The rocks—”

“ _Sit,_ ” Lance says, slinging him onto the window seat. Eugene lists into the cushions, fear sparking in his mind; too loud for any coherent thought. “Mr. Besim, _what_ —”

They both look to Xavier, but his attention is not on them, nor on the balcony where Rapunzel—

Instead, he stares, ashen, at Rapunzel’s easel.

Eugene shakes himself out of Lance’s loosening grip and stumbles up to join Xavier in looking; as soon as his gaze falls upon the painting, his stomach drops.

He recognizes it.

When he saw it last, it had been a portrait of Cass—a _strange_ portrait, a Cassandra of serrated edges and harsh lines, but nonetheless unmistakably _Cass._ He put the uncanniness down to feelings of betrayal, perhaps an unvoiced anger, but now—

The… _thing_ in the portrait is not Cass, anymore.

It’s not even _human._

“…Uh,” Lance says.

“Oh, no,” Xavier breathes. “It is worse than I feared.”

“You _think?_ ”

Xavier strides away from the easel to drop his gigantic book on Rapunzel’s vanity; he lifts the cover and begins to rifle frantically through the pages, muttering.

“Xavier, can you _please_ explain—?”

“I am one of the last living descendants of Cyril Demanitus,” Xavier says briskly. Eugene blinks. “That is, the Lord Demanitus of Coronan folk tales, and the one who banished Zhan Tiri from the realm.”

“You’re—? _Really?_ ”

“It is not,” he adds, rather dryly, “a fact I advertise. Nothing is left of the estate to inherit but a multitude of enemies, and this book.” He finds the page he’s searching for, and smooths his fingers over the yellowing vellum. “Lord Demanitus recorded everything he knew of Zhan Tiri and his minions; the cults, the scions– here.”

He pushes the tome closer for them to read; it’s written in Coronan so archaic Eugene can barely make sense of it, but he gets the gist.

“Ritual… painting?”

“Indeed. We are dealing with Sugracha the Eternal; one of the most deranged and dangerous of Zhan Tiri’s scions. Artistic magic is her speciality—”

“ _Sugarby,_ ” Eugene whispers, his heart sinking. His blood turns to ice. “Rapunzel’s painting classes—”

Frowning, Xavier skims over the page of Demanitus’s book. “How long has she been taking lessons from this ‘Sugarby?’”

“…Five– no, four. Four weeks.”

 _Four_ weeks, _she’s had a demon in her head!_

_And I didn’t notice—_

“I see,” Xavier says grimly. “I believe _this_ is the ritual Sugracha intends to use to free Zhan Tiri. It is known as the Unbinding, and the requirements…” His voice sinks into an inaudible murmur as his fingers drum against the page; then, with grave certainty, he says, “Janus Point. She will bring the Princess to Janus Point.”

“That’s _forty miles_ —”

“We can make it,” Lance interjects. “It’s four hours to Artois by barge; that’s, what, six miles south of Janus Point? If we bring horses—”

“Xavier, is that enough time?”

“I do not know.” The leather spine of Demanitus’s book creaks as he closes it, tucks it under his arm. He takes a deep breath. “But we must try.”

“Horses,” Eugene says mechanically. “The stables— let’s go.”

Lance is already moving; Eugene hurries after him with Xavier at his heels. _Max and Perseus are the fastest Watch horses—_

“I’ll get Axel and meet you by the docks in fifteen.”

“Right—”

Eugene takes the steps down from the listing tower three at a time, pulse screaming in his ears. _No time to ask permission. Saddles, barge–_

_Four hours. Four hours. Oh, Sunshine, just hold—_

_BOOM._

The stairs drop out from under his feet as the whole tower bucks. Eugene crashes into the wall, bright spots pinwheeling through his eyes— Lance _shrieks,_ fearful, not hurt— Xavier cries out, skidding down a few steps before he catches himself on the handrail—

Outside, the sounds of more explosions batter against the tower, and Eugene catches his breath, scrabbling to recover his footing on the quaking steps.

“Go,” he gasps. “Go– _run!_ ”

## ❦

Adira pauses as a tremor ripples down the tunnels, listening intently for the telltale _crack_ of collapsing stone; but the old masonry holds. Ruddiger chitters in the murk ahead of her, and she resumes her swift pace.

The seeds of concern sown in the weeks since she found Quirin encased in the amber blossom now into outright worry. She did not find Varian jailed in Anbruch, nor rotting in the dungeons of Herzingen; her every attempt to locate him has ended in failure. It doesn’t—

It does not make _sense._

Her talisman glows blue in her grip, illuminating her path and glinting off the spiderweb veins of black rock that have infiltrated Herzingen’s labyrinth. It _should_ have been able to lead her to Varian. The boy is marked just as she is; and, unbound, the brand _should_ have burned like a beacon during her meditations.

Or, if he were dead, she should have felt it; ashen and cold, a silent, lifeless rest in the moon-song.

Not… _this._ Varian feels like starlight glinting in disrupted water; refracted into tiny, wavering splinters of light. Something has hidden him where the magic of her talisman cannot reach.

Adira knows of only one person capable of obscuring the moonstone’s sight, and warding the black rocks away; but Gothel is _dead._

So, when Varian’s raccoon burst out of the frosted undergrowth and interrupted her meditation several hours ago, Adira followed him without question. If magic cannot find Quirin’s son, perhaps his faithful companion can.

Ruddiger growls, bristling, as he skitters ahead of her. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with unease. They’ve passed beneath the strait and are deep under Herzingen now, and the weight of the island above her head feels nearly palpable. No light pierces the darkness, save the faint gleam of her talisman.

“Varian?” she calls, softly, softly.

No answer but Ruddiger’s snarls.

Adira hurries on.

The tunnel floor begins to slope downward, spiraling even deeper into the bedrock. Regular masonry gives way to the raw stone of a natural cavern; the walls glisten, wet with brine.

She nearly trips over Varian before she sees him. He kneels in the dark, running his hands along a thick seam of black rock in vague distraction.

“…Varian?” she whispers, aghast.

He looks as if he hasn’t eaten or slept in _days_. The scar on his jaw carves stark lines against the pallor of his gaunt face; shadows crawl over his eyes, which are sunken in their sockets and half hidden beneath lank, matted locks of his hair.

He takes a startled, rasping breath. “Adira.”

“What–” At a rare loss for words, she crouches before him, reaching for the gentle bedside manner that has never come easy. “Where have you been? What are you doing down here?”

His pupils are blown wide, glassy in the faint light from her talisman. He licks his lips, and mutters, “I found a way to free my Dad—”

“—you have?—”

“—it’s time. It’s time; it’s almost over.” Shuddering, Varian closes his eyes, and Adira is on the point of reaching out to touch his shoulder when he opens them again, and looks up at her.

She recoils.

Shining in the shadowed depths of his pupils are two tiny green sparks.

“ _Varian_ —”

“I have to do this,” he says, in a much steadier voice than before. “You should run.”

His hand moves—there’s a _clink_ of glass vials—

Pale liquid splatters the black rock, and Varian spins on his heel and sprints away. Before Adira can gather herself to follow him, brilliant amber light irradiates the cavern, and instinctive fear saws against her nerves. She scoops Ruddiger under one arm and scrambles backwards, slipping through puddles of brine, as the black rock _screams._

Liquescent amber erupts out of the rock like a geyser. Droplets splatter her face, hot and sticky, and the earth trembles and the moon-song roars and Adira vaults clear of another burst—

The whole island wrenches with shock as the amber burrows into the roof of the cavern, and the rock above her head groans.

Only one choice remains, and Adira takes it.

She flees.

Ruddiger yowls, his claws scrabbling against her lamellar as she charges back up the tunnels; when she risks a glance over her shoulder, she sees the amber _boiling_ behind her, and a curse slips through her clenched teeth.

The black rocks howl; another massive quake knocks her off her feet, but she rolls and comes up running again with hardly a stumble. A great slab of shattered rock plummets into the floor just ahead, and she leaps over it—

Fast as she is, she cannot outrun the burgeoning collapse. More rocks rain down, and the amber licks greedily at her heels; swearing again, Adira doubles her grip on the talisman.

_Crescent high above—_

It has been twenty-five years since last she prayed; but the chant flows readily, cold and fast as a river in spring.

_—warden of the skies—_

Clean, icy power sluices into her veins, and black rocks unfold out of the tunnels, wrapping her in darkness. Adira bows her head, wheezing—the talisman drums like a beating heart in her grip—

_—set the stars ablaze, and—_

—and the words vanish into the clarifying chill of the moon-song; a silent, solitary chorus, a roar in many voices—

Safe, cradled in a cocoon of black rock, Adira swims for the surface. Dimly, she hears soil and stone battering against her shell of black rock, but it’s a distant, feeble sound, a dull pattering of rain beneath the thunder of gelid moonlight.

_—let the darkness rise—_

She breaks the surface with her blood rushing in her ears, and the rocks spill her out onto a street. Adira slumps against the frozen cobblestones, panting; the prayer fades, and the magic ebbs, leaving her boneless and shivering. Her vision swims with shadows crawling in her peripherals.

Groaning, Adira pushes herself onto her knees, and then, wobbling, stands to catch her breath. Ruddiger climbs to her shoulder, still grumbling unhappily.

_…Oh._

_Oh, no._

Varian’s amber crests high over the city, stained a dim, muddy blue by moonlight. It is growing, still, spitted by black rocks and draped here and there in black brambles with drooping white blossoms that furl open to the moon.

Ahead, the street has cratered in, exposing the long, black gullet of the island. Amber flows down the sides of the pit like drippings of wax, the rubble of houses and carts trapped in crystalline rivulets—

And bodies, of people who did not escape. Screams echo up from below, but this stretch of the city is deserted, now. Numb, Adira turns away from the sinkhole and stumbles upward; toward the palace. Rapunzel. The _sundrop._

Whatever small help she can offer—

No watchmen stand at the gate, which does not surprise. Black rocks spear the palace lawns, though no amber has broken the surface here. Adira weaves a path between them, still wobbling; she has almost reached the gilded doors when they fly open and three men rush out.

The royal blacksmith, and two of Varian’s friends; one wiry, well-dressed, pale as a fish; the other taller, broader in the shoulder, with a golden stud glinting in his ear. She alters her course to intercept them.

“Lady—” Fishskin narrows his eyes as she approaches, wariness written in every line of his body. “—we really do not have time for—”

“Where is the Princess?” Adira says, crisp, because _she_ really does not have the time, either.

“Who wants to know?”

She rolls her eyes, lifting her fist to show them the moonstone’s brand; the blacksmith gasps lowly in recognition. “My name is Adira. Varian is in the labyrinth; this—” she flaps a hand at the palace walls, the rising amber “—is his doing.”

“Excuse me, _what?_ ”

“I do not think he is acting under his own power.”

The trio exchange tight, unhappy glances. Earrings blows air through his teeth and says, “Mr. Besim?”

“She needs a third participant for the Unbinding,” the blacksmith whispers. Adira blinks. “Yes. It’s plausible—”

“That _bitch,_ ” Fishskin mutters. “Listen, Adira– she took Rapunzel too. We’ve gotta go—”

“‘She?’”

He’s already moving again, striding rapidly across the lawn. “Long story short,” he says, as Adira falls into step beside him, “ancient evil minion of Zhan Tiri’s trying to free her master. Tonight. Needs Rapunzel and apparently Varian to do it. Gotta get to Janus Point as fast as possible; barge to Artois, horses from there. You in?”

The air splinters; frost in her lungs, a sickening cold.

“I am,” she says.

## ❦

It’s full dark by the time the _Zampermin_ soars over the black forests just north of Herzingen, and frantic urgency makes Cassandra’s nerves jangle as she kicks into the leather harness. Straps for each leg; cinched tight around her waist; the steel carabiner thumps against her stomach as she fastens the buckles.

“—we aren’t back by midnight, you weigh anchor and bolt for Alcorsīa,” Moira says tightly. Pocket twitches, but doesn’t protest; Sitheach, beside him, just blinks, impassive. “Do _not_ follow us.”

“If you’re captured—”

“We,” Moira snarls, “are not leaving the tunnels. _Right,_ Cassandra?”

“Cross my heart,” Cassandra says, grim, as she clips herself into the lines. Only hours ago, the prospect of abseiling out of the _Zampermin_ had made her rigid with fear; but she has done it once before, now, and all she feels is cold determination. “I’m ready.”

Moira checks her handiwork, tugging on the lines and plucking at the straps of her harness with rough, jerky movements; then nods, and clips herself in, too. “Renard?”

“Ready, Captain.”

Moira bares her teeth to the full moon, and snaps, “Drop the anchor.”

The _Zampermin’s_ anchor resembles a massive harpoon more than anything: long and straight, with a series of hooks barbing away from the spear-head, it’s mounted in a massive gun at the ships stern. It clanks as Pocket lifts it out of its locked position and takes aim, down into the bristling shadows of the forest.

He pulls the trigger.

The anchor launches with a deafening iron rattle; a second later, there’s a _bang,_ and the massive chain snaps taut. Groaning, the ship tilts into the anchor’s pull, judders hard, and then smooths out into a sedate, close turn.

She can’t, Moira had explained this afternoon, _stop_ in mid-flight; the magic keeping the ship aloft relies on her movement through the air. But she can glide circles around the fixed anchor.

“Right,” Moira sighs, hoisting herself over the ship’s railing. “Let’s get this over with.”

Cassandra clambers after her, easing her weight into the harness as she leans away from the ship. The steel descender bleeds cold through her gloves. Icy wind slaps her hood down, piercing the scratchy fabric of the scarf tied over her face.

Somewhere under the muffling fog of her resolve, she feels a flutter of instinctive fear. There’s nothing beneath her but the pearly glint of the ship’s magic and, far, far below, the dark ground.

She lets go.

Her stomach falls straight through her feet and tumbles away with the wind; the rope whirrs through the descender, and they plunge into the current of magic that bears the ship aloft. Warmth sweeps over her, a sweet scent like pine smoke wafts into her mouth—a spiraling, opalescence, like starlight trapped in mist—

Then they’re clear and skimming down, down, through the turbulent darkness.

She hits the ground harder than she intends to, and flops to her knees in the snow. Moira lands an instant later, light on her feet.

They unclip themselves from the ship. Moira lights her lantern, and for an instant, they stare at each other in the sickly, greenish light.

“Where’s this entrance, honey?”

Even in the dark, it doesn’t take long to get her bearings. Cassandra _knows_ these woods; their footpaths and riding trails, and the mossy entrance into the labyrinth hidden among the trees.

“Not far. This way.”

They march in prickly silence, swatting damp pine branches out of the way. She can _feel_ Moira fuming. Inklings of guilt spark in the back of her mind; she grinds them down to ash.

She has to keep Rapunzel safe. _Nothing_ matters more than that.

After several minutes of walking, she spots the hulking boulder that marks the tunnel entrance and breaks into a restless jog. The light from Moira’s lantern bounces weirdly over the trees, casting feathered shadows over the snow.

Her pulse throbs beneath her skin.

They descend into the labyrinth. Cassandra orients them south, toward Herzingen, and grips the hilt of the saber Moira lent her; when she pulled her broadsword from the broken automaton, hours ago, the blade came out cracked, having been twisted beyond repair by the inner workings of the machine.

Maybe, once this is over, she’ll feel more than a dull pang of regret for the loss.

Five minutes. Ten. Cassandra begins to lose track of the seconds; the tunnel slopes steadily down, the darkness pressing in close and wet as the labyrinth plunges them under the strait. Saltwater puddles ankle-deep in some places; the frost crusting the walls seems to writhe in the jostling lantern-light.

Arrhythmic tremors skitter along the tunnel. Every so often they pass a thick vein of black rock; thin trickles of saltwater bleed through the cracks.

“…Cassandra, this doesn’t seem–”

“We’re almost there.”

Dust hangs in the air, a shroud that grows thicker as the tunnel begins to climb again and they weave closer and closer to the surface. It makes Cassandra’s eyes water, and dampens the light of Moira’s lantern.

They’re in the tangle of tunnels just under the Sunlit Temple when Cassandra sees Rapunzel, darting across an intersection just ahead.

Her heart leaps.

“ _Raps—!_ ”

“Cassandra, don’t—”

She races after the princess, feeling almost sick with relief; skids around the corner where Rapunzel—

_Vines._

They’re _everywhere._ Dark roots carpet the floor, ramble up the walls and lace the ceiling; slick with sap, glistening in the feeble lantern-light, pulsating like veins.

Standing at their nexus, placidly smiling, is a woman who is _not_ Rapunzel. The gold mycelium sloughs out of her hair as Cassandra shrinks away; the violet dress she wore shreds like a discarded cocoon to reveal greasy furs and slimy green silk.

The woman grins, with all her teeth. Her eyes are a gleaming, lurid green, bright as fire in the gloom.

“Hello, dear,” she croons. “You’re _just_ in time.”

Cassandra fumbles for her sword as the vines slither toward her—there’s a ripple of hot air against the back of her neck and an icy sting in the palm of her hand—

Numbness swells up her arm and breaks over her before she can even shout; the last thing she hears before her body slumps into the embrace of the vines is Moira, shouting, and a clatter of steel against stone.

She sinks into a bog of black, brackish water. Warm silt seeps into her mouth, trickles down her throat; fills her chest with a suffocating, paralyzing heaviness. Cassandra tries to squirm, feebly, but she can’t move; can’t do anything but settle deeper and deeper into muck.


	28. Chapter 27: The Message of the Yew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence, blood.

###  **Chapter 27: The Message of the Yew**

She cracks her eyes open, once. Misty greenish light filters through the murky water, broken by dark, slithering, grasping weeds.

Shuddering, Cassandra slips into shadow again. She floats. She breathes in the warm stagnant bog until she becomes a part of it herself; a skein of flesh, stuffed with weeds and peat.

Sleeping.

Dreaming, in the water.

A jolt: her head breaches the surface. The bog spits her up on a mound of rough stone, and her waterlogged tranquility shatters. Coughing, spluttering, she clings to the boulder and retches up silt and foul water. Her chest _burns._

Until her lungs empty with a final wheeze. Cassandra slumps, quivering. The water slops around her waist; beneath her, wet basalt glistens darkly in a thick haze of sunlight.

“Hello, Cassandra.”

The voice does not seem to come from anywhere; but it settles into her ear, sticking like a burr beneath her skin. She tenses. Motes of soft laughter glint in the corners of her eyes.

Rasping, Cassandra drags herself higher onto the basalt. Sunlight spills over her shoulders, warm and thick. Everything aches.

“Wh- w-where…?”

She wallows momentarily in the sludge of her memories. Silt between her fingers. Vines, and teeth—she was in the tunnels—

Again, the voice says, “Cassandra.”

Cassandra blinks. “This is a dream,” she croaks.

“Yes.”

“I’m… dreaming.”

The voice does not answer. She wipes sticky black residue from her mouth and lifts her head, to look.

A variegated expanse of dark water and lurid vegetation fans out beneath the jet-black, starless dome of the sky. Rising in the distance ahead of her is a monstrous tower of some harsh grey stone; more basalt, maybe, cragged like a termite mound. What she had taken for sunlight is cast instead by a seething, radiant beacon at the summit; molten light trickles down the tower’s flanks. The air feels heavy, redolent with a cloying sweetness.

She coughs. A wet rattle.

The voice murmurs, “Cassandra.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Have you ever heard the tale of Ri Ni’n and the vulture?” the voice asks, unperturbed.

“No.” Cassandra kicks at the weeds that entangle her legs and, floundering, crawls fully out of the water. The bog releases her with a disgruntled sucking noise; she pants, cradling her head in her hands. “I- I need… to wake up.”

Virescent spots bloom behind her eyelids. Her head throbs with vertigo. There was something she meant to _do_ —

“Long ago when the world was new,” the voice croons; like a trickle of brackish water, “a seed of starlight grew into a mighty tree. Her roots spread through the deepest, darkest waters of the firmament, and her boughs reached into every corner of the land; and she was named Ri Ni’n.”

She shivers, chilled despite the congealing heat. Muddled, by, by– _there were vines_ —

But she is tired, and the basalt is warm. Cassandra sinks onto it piece by piece, curling, limp; and the gurgling heartbeat of the bog fills her chest, and the voice is gentle and soft and serrated and brittle and dripping, dripping, deeper, eroding away the little jags of her distraction.

She rests her cheek against the stone, eyes half-lidded, and listens.

“She was so beautiful, Cassandra. Her leaves were as tourmaline, her fruit as purest gold, her blossoms spun of stardust and mist. Pale as bone grew her flesh, and when she wept, the sap flowed clear and green and sweet. A single drop of it cured every ill. To taste of her fruit was to taste joy itself, and beauty, and wonder. And great Ri Ni’n was beloved by all; for who could despise a being so lovely, so pure, or so kind?

“Even the proud, detestable vulture looked upon her and felt a grain of _affection;_ but hers, oh, hers was a covetous love. Putrid with _want._ ” The voice hums, ripe with some private amusement. Cassandra draws her knees to her chest; beneath her skin, an _itch_ — “One day at dusk, the vulture came to Ri Ni’n and said, ‘Dear tree, the day is ailing, and the night will be long; and these wings of mine grow weary. Will you let me roost among your branches, and shelter me until morning comes?’

“Ri Ni’n refused, and the vulture asked why. ‘I know you,’ she answered. ‘They call you Lady Hunger, Mistress Shadow, the Black-Goat-With-One-Thousand-Teeth; you are cruel, oh carrion bird, and wherever your shadow falls, carnage and lamentations soon follow. I have nothing for you, and want nothing from you.’

“‘The sun is my sister,’ the vulture replied, ‘and to her, you fed a mouthful of your sap; the moon is my brother, and with him, you shared a morsel of your fruit. Do they not fly over this ravaged land just the same as I? Do they not sit by my side when I feast? Are they not crueler in their indifference than I in my need?’

“Ri Ni’n had no answer for this, and the vulture pressed: ‘Why, then, am I different?’

“‘The sun succors me with light and warmth,’ Ri Ni’n said, ‘and the moon sings to me so sweetly in the night. They are my friends, Mistress Shadow, and though they take, they also give. What have you to offer?’

“‘Nothing,’ replied the vulture. ‘Oh, dear tree, I eat, and I eat, and still I am empty. All that I have is a hunger that can never be sated. I can offer you nothing but gratitude; but that, I will gladly give.’”

Vegetation coils in the uncertain darkness behind her eyes. Algae, slick with brine and red as blood, coats her thoughts. Something soft and wet wriggles at the nape of her neck, beneath her hair.

Her fingers twitch.

_Don’t._

“Ri Ni’n,” the voice purrs, “thought this over awhile, while the vulture wheeled circles in the gloaming above her head. The sun lay down to rest, and as the moon roused himself from slumber, Ri Ni’n at last said, ‘Very well. Come make yourself a bed of my leaves, and rest your tired wings.’

“And so, the vulture spent the night in the arms of Ri Ni’n. They spoke of oh, _so_ many things; whispered secrets, of hunger and want, of flowers, of roots, of shadows and light. When morning came, the vulture stretched her wings to the sun, and said, ‘Darling, give me a flower to soothe my emptiness, and I will teach you how to dream.’

“‘A flower?’ asked Ri Ni’n, perplexed. ‘My fruit would fill you better, Lady Hunger.’

“‘I want,’ the vulture insisted, ‘a flower.’

“So Ri Ni’n gave her a single, shining blossom, with all the nebular colors of the firmament shimmering in its vaporous petals. The ravenous vulture swallowed it, and in the umbral pit of her gullet, its colors bled and blackened, and her darkness crushed the flower’s delicate carpel into a small, bitter fig seed.

“The vulture said, ‘I will plant this seed here, dear tree, in your arms. It will cry for the soil and the sun, and you will listen, and you will learn. For what is a dream but a craving, unfulfilled? Oh, darling, it will hurt, but without hunger, _life_ is not worth living.’

“It happened just as the vulture said. For eons, Ri Ni’n and the fig grew intertwined and dreaming, consumed by the profound agony of _desire._ The vulture returned often, to gorge herself upon flowers and figs, each time sharing all that she had seen and learned as she wandered; and Ri Ni’n found in her a dearest friend.”

Hot breath eddies against her neck; then a tickle of briars, or claws, or teeth. Her mind is a stagnant pool, and vines slide beneath the still surface. It hurts to breathe.

Cassandra whimpers.

“Is it not a pretty story?” the voice whispers into her ear.

She was in the tunnels under Herzingen and the lantern-light greased the old stones green; lichen and brine, and a hungry smile, and climbing vine—

_Rapunzel._

She gasps. She jerks. The leaden weight of her limbs presses her into the basalt; she cannot move, and the boulder rocks, settling deeper into the bog. Water laps greedily at her legs. Her vision fractures and spins into a nauseating cyclone of color, and she slumps down again, moaning.

“Hush, hush,” croons the voice. “Lie still.”

Beneath her ear, the basalt buzzes a jagged melody. Brackish water bubbles up out of the small holes speckling the rough surface.

_Rapunzel—_

“But what becomes of the strangler once the tree has rotted away? Skeletal, she remains; a mimic, bearing fruit.”

Cassandra thrashes, limbs flailing like a marionette with her strings cut; the voice makes a quiet, chiding sound. More water froths out of the basalt, flecking her lips.

“The vulture feasts, while the carcass decays. Nothing lasts but _hunger._ ”

“Please—”

“You’re afraid,” the voice purrs. “…Boar-heart.”Fetid warmth pools against her neck; a squirming chuckle. “The only way out is _down._ ”

The boulder lurches, spitting water in stuttering gouts. Cassandra heaves herself onto her knees with a ragged sob, and as she scrabbles for purchase on the slippery basalt, she _sees_ it: yawning black at the bottom of the bog, a pit of teeth, a gullet of vines—

A _door_.

“Don’t fear it, boar-heart.”

Cassandra swallows her breath, and dives.

_It is yours._

## ❦

A chill wind claws her awake. Cassandra thrashes with her scream trapped halfway up her throat; her flailing hands find briars and bramble, clutching—

The thicket rustles, unravels, and she tumbles out onto frozen earth. Her fingers scuttle up the back of her neck, frantic, but there’s _noth–_ there’s nothing, there’s _nothing._ Little hairs, and bare, unbroken skin.

“– _nnngh_ —”

Black vines coil over the icy loam, limp and glistening in the moonlight. The wintry gale cuts into her like a knife. Cassandra coughs, scraping dry but rancid air out of her lungs, and digs her fingertips into her neck with a shudder.

_Dream._

_Dreaming–_

“Ah. Welcome back, Miss Morgenstern. Or do you prefer Hároham?”

The woman from the tunnels poses the question like it _matters;_ a polite tone so at odds with– with _all of this_ that Cassandra can’t find the wherewithal to do more than lift her head and stare, blearily. The witch stands, leaning on a gnarled black cane, at the frayed boundary where vines give way to blank frost. Pallid moonlight carves harsh shadows into her face; as if the bones are pressing up under her papery skin, eager for escape; her faint smile is awful with _kindness._

Cassandra gropes for her saber, and feels a dull absence of surprise when her fingers grip empty air. The pleasant smile sharpens toward a smirk.

“What have you done with my friends?”

“Oh, come now.” The witch tuts. “ _That’s_ no way to begin, dear. I am Sugracha il—”

“ _Where,_ ” Cassandra snarls, “are my _friends._ ”

Sugracha rolls her eyes, but she steps aside with a grand gesture behind her, to the–

To the yew tree.

Her blood runs colder than the midwinter wind.

It rears high—higher than in her memories; clutching the indigo sky in a fist of sinuous branches, lacquered by the moon. Red sap rilles down its gnarled trunk, throbbing with a sickening and radiant pulse and pooling sanguine on the broad lip of the enormous jardinière. Rime feathers down the jardinière’s sides, clinging in fractured spirals to macabre reliefs—

Janus Point.

Rapunzel and Varian shuffle back and forth in the liquescent shadow of the tree, building… _something,_ a hunched figure of mud and snow. Something animal, ape-like, headless.

“ _Raps–_ ”

Her bare feet leave dark footprints in the snow, and her arms are gloved in a twitching lattice of vegetation; pale tendrils and frail leaves and little buds just beginning to open into small flowers that glitter like polished glass and—

Beaming, Rapunzel slaps another handful of mud onto the flanks of the makeshift idol, and a trace of gold light whispers down her fingers, wriggling into the grit.

“What did you _do to her_ – t- to _them?!_ ”

Sugracha slinks into the henge, a brackish chuckle curling behind her. “As I was saying—before you interrupted me, dear—your… friends know me by other names.” Birdlike, her head tilts. “The sympathetic art teacher, Mrs. Sugarby—” She combs a shimmering tangle of blonde hair away from Rapunzel’s brow like a doting parent, and Cassandra tastes bile. “—and the persecuted alchemist, Arietta Zashin. The artist and the scholar.”

Varian squats in front of the idol, scratching something into the dirt at its feet with his brow knit in furious concentration; Rapunzel sashays to the jardinière and rises onto her toes to rifle through a bundle of grey fabric waiting atop it.

“L- let– let them _go!_ ” Cassandra staggers to her feet on wobbling legs, and Sugracha rewards her with a sardonic glance as vertigo swallows her. “N- _now._ ”

“No.” The mat of vines twitches beneath her; she crashes down again, and Sugracha smirks. “ _Really,_ Miss– you never did say which you preferred.”

“ _Morgenstern._ ”

“Miss Morgenstern. My dear, this… defiant little pantomime accomplishes nothing but prolonging the ordeal. You will do as I say.” She clicks her fingers. A thick mass of vegetation rips away from one of the henge-stones, and spills Moira onto the ground at Sugracha’s feet. “Or… Moira Caine will die.”

Cassandra feels her heart plant itself in her throat and die there. Blood smears the side of Moira’s face, matting loose strands of hair to her cheek; she’s bound in brambles, her jaw cut in sharp lines of incandescent fury.

_If I hadn’t—_

“This,” Moira spits, “is why I don’t _fucking_ go to church.”

“Mm.” Sounding bored, Sugracha adds, “Should that prove insufficiently motivating, I’ll wake the boy, then have your Princess butcher him.”

“ _No!_ ”

“Then we’re agreed,” Sugracha purrs, swiveling to lounge against the jardinière. “Do as I tell you, and I’ll spare them all.”

She can’t breathe. The dead husk of her heart chokes her of air and tightness like the crush of silt fills her chest and Moira doesn’t look at her but her shoulders tense when Sugracha grins and threads her fingers through Moira’s hair; and Rapunzel peels the final layer of cloth from her prize and moonlight slides over bone like oil and Cassandra gags as she sees what it _is._

A skull; wolfish, with scraps of mangy fur and gristle clinging to the muzzle and dark liquid oozing from its hollow eyes. Rapunzel cradles it like an infant, crooning a wordless melody, and the foliage twined around her arms burrows inside it with a hazy pulse of iridescent light—

—and a low hiss of pain slips through Moira’s teeth as Sugracha yanks her head back, and the twisted handle of the witch’s cane barbs into a long spike and _moves;_ Moira makes a terrible fearful noise and the ossifying fear cracks.

“Stop! _St_ – Alright, alright, I’ll do it, _don’t_ —”

The thorned tip of the cane’s handle stops, pressed against Moira’s throat, and for a moment, the only sound is the snarl of the wind. Moira closes her eyes, hardly breathing.

“Just d- don’t hurt her,” Cassandra whispers.

Sugracha smiles.

“The Unbinding,” she says, velvety soft, “is a ritual of threes, Miss Morgenstern. One to see, one to know; the artist—” Her eyes glitter as Rapunzel settles the wolf skull into place on the neck of their idol; its jaw gapes open, wound with with vines and dripping honeysuckle, and two spires of twigs and tiny golden flowers branch away from its crown; vegetable horns. “—and the scholar.”

Poisonous green light sparks in the hollows of the skull’s eyes and bleeds downward, glazing packed snow and muck of the idol’s body and flowing into the sigils Varian has been clawing into the frozen earth.

“And you,” Sugracha breathes. “The breaker of chains. The one who _chooses._ ”

_They’ll never forgive you._

Cassandra struggles to her feet again; sways dizzily, and slumps against the nearest henge-stone. Her breath crackles like dead leaves. “Wh- why– why _me?_ Why couldn’t… you–” Or _Sirin,_ who chose this, who _wants–_ or anyone, _anyone_ else.

“You are yourself unbound,” Sugracha says mildly. “Unclaimed. There is so much power in the striking of a new bargain.” A thin smile creeps onto her lips; she worms the handle of her cane against Moira’s throat, and blood wells around the barb and begins to trickle sluggishly down her neck. “I had plans for her lover, you know,” she adds, with a sly glance at Rapunzel, who is humming as she presses yew needles into the idol’s shoulders. “But ensnare the first two and the third _will_ follow—and you did, Miss Morgenstern. Didn’t you?”

Her grip on the henge-stone slips. Cassandra steps into the henge, lurching as the oily air between the stones ripples against her face. “It- it was _you,_ ” she mumbles. “You p- you planted those notes, in Varian’s—”

“ _Oh,_ yes.”

And then, and then– Mount Ghisa. A lure, a snare; the automaton lying in wait, with an obvious weakness in its casing. The magic spilling out, the writhing kaleidoscopic geyser of it engulfing her in insensate blackness; how it struck her to the bone with the need to go to Herzingen—and Sugracha.

Sugracha, who slipped her fingers into Rapunzel’s head, and Varian’s head, and twisted them into mindless puppets.

And what had Sirin said before the battle in Socona? _We hoped to delay until midwinter._

Tonight. It’s midwinter. She meant _tonight._

Cassandra closes her eyes, fighting the urge to be sick.

“Very good,” Sugracha murmurs, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “One works with the raw materials one has to hand, mm? Go on, dear. They’re ready for you.”

The idol is finished.

Rapunzel and Varian shuffle away from it, holding hands and wearing identical expressions of misty expectation; both pale and sickly-looking in the moonlight. Heatless emerald flames lick along the lines of Varian’s sigils, and the wind battering the promontory _stops;_ breathless, putrid silence smothers everything but the squeak of snow under her boots.

She moves. One halting step. Another.

The idol’s shoulders rise to her chest. It’s a crouching, animal thing, with a line of stones pressed down the back to suggest the sharp ridge of a spine, and a ribcage of branches and bramble woven around its chest. A chip of blue stone glitters in the hollow of its throat. The needles embedded in its neck and shoulders bristle like hackles; the luxuriant rotting nightmare of its head still grows, the horns curling into a lazy spiral, a huge black lily blossoming in its jaws.

Withered flowers lie at its feet, and two long, thin arms stretch between the fiery sigils, spindly hands open and grasping.

_This is all my fault._

Cassandra stops before the idol, shivering.

If she hadn’t– if she hadn’t— if she _hadn’t,_ a long envenomed trail of selfish intentions. Long before she walked into Sugracha’s trap, before she left Herzingen, before Sirin led her to Janus Point; she opened a letter from Rosalia Morcant and let anger and ambition cloud her judgment.

Nobody laid this path but _her._

The air oozes down her throat like tar and fills her lungs with sticky, foul weight. She cradles her arm against her chest, her heartbeat throbbing in her palm.

Maybe this is no more than she deserves. The traitor, kneeling, to welcome a demon back into the world. The hard loam stings her knees. She hears herself rasping as she looks up at the idol.

Congealed shadows lave over it in a wormy black shroud. The cold hooks into her bones and drags her closer on hands and knees; silent tears carve molten lines down her cheeks. It _hurts,_ and the pain sharpens until there’s nothing left in the world; only the looming idol and a serrated hungry _ache_ writhing through her her skin, her flesh, through viscera and bone. Her vision swims, pulsating with spidery webs of black and red and she coughs and she _looks_ —

The flowering pits of the idol’s eyes shine like black stars above her; the malevolent grin crowded with petals and fangs exudes the smell of decaying honeysuckle and fresh blood. Behindher eyelids there are thorns, and she coughs again and feels something burst in her throat, tastes a copper tang and the bitterness of brine.

_Don’t fear it._

_Don’t be afraid._

Zhan Tiri’s outstretched hands reach for hers, and Cassandra chokes on a sob as the voice pours into her mind again, warm and slick, numbing in a way that makes her want to throw back her head and howl at the lightless sky.

“You…”

“You know me.” A gentle croon, a purr; it crashes over her thoughts like rolling thunder. “Boar-heart. I freed you. I led you to safety when the wind blew cold—”

“N- no–”

“I took the captain’s eye. Yes. Oh, Cassandra, I have spent so _long_ in the dark, hungering and helpless. But I see you.” Hot breath soughs through her hair. “You’ve been shackled so long you remember nothing else; by your obligations, by the impositions of _thieves._ ”

A low snarl shreds the words, sinking into a growl; briars prickle at the nape of her neck. Cassandra wallows in the demon’s voice, mired in trancelike revulsion.

“They carved a prison of your flesh,” Zhan Tiri murmurs. “Fettered you in guilt and disgust. Lied to you. Bled you dry and left your broken husk for _dead;_ but you are not the small, weak thing they tried to make of you, mm?”

Rime coats Cassandra’s fingers as she lifts her trembling hand; inches away from the clawed, bony fingers of the idol.

_Come. Release me._

“How you burn with rage,” Zhan Tiri whispers. “Under your chains and beneath your flesh; you are _starving,_ boar-heart, and hunger is power.” The muddy fingers twitch. “I can help you. _Let_ me help you, Cassandra. Let me show you how freedom tastes.”

_Now!_

A roar like the beating of drums, like—

—she clasps the idol’s hand—

— _like hoofbeats_ —

“ _Rapunzel!_ ”

—and Janus Point _screams._

The whole promontory convulses; above, the colossal yew _writhes._ Virescent fire streams over the thrashing branches and flecks of blackness swim like maggots in her eyes. She thinks she screams as the idol grips her hand; something burrows between her ribs and hooks a talon into her heart and _tugs_ —

A commotion behind her. Sugracha shrieks like nothing human and it slices through the swamp of her mind; gasping, Cassandra drags her gaze away from the infinite tarry pools of the idol’s eyes as its fingers clamp tighter and a horse tramples into the henge.

 _Max,_ rearing with a scream when the vines strewn over the henge whip to life— _Eugene,_ leaping from his back and tackling Varian and Rapunzel to the ground—

Brambles lash his shoulders, shredding his jacket and ripping blood from his flesh; Eugene cries out, hunching to shield Rapunzel and Varian from the onslaught—

Lance and a giant of a woman with pale hair charge between the headstones, swords drawn, shouting things Cassandra can’t decipher through the suppurating gurgle in her ears.

Pain rakes down her arm.

With a furious hiss, Sugracha lifts her cane away from Moira’s throat—

Howling, Cassandra wrenches herself free of the idol’s grip and throws herself bodily at the witch.

Sugracha crumples like rotten ice. Her dress and her furs turn to pulp and there’s nothing underneath but jagged bones and thorny brambles, cold damp moss, wet ropes of pitch and putrid viscera and dangling cockle-shells; Sugracha ravels apart and knots together again around her. Cassandra screams, thrashing against the vicious press of the thicket. Serrated thorns and bone-shards dig into her like teeth; piercing ripping _bleeding_ —

Laughter pulsates in her veins.

_As the boar butchers its hunter—_

_a spear and a tusk_

Brambles coil around her throat—

_a carnal bloodletting. The sitient earth—_

Somehow, somehow, her hand finds a familiar hilt and her terrified cries become a triumphant snarl as her parrying dagger settles into her palm. With a glint and a slash of steel the brambles fall away. Cold air hits her with a slap as she cuts herself free of the maddened briar patch, and it stings and tastes of _freedom_.

The pale-haired woman towers over her with a huge black longsword that flashes down and severs the last of the vines tangled around her legs. Cassandra kicks herself free, slapping blood from her eyes. A quick scramble, another flash of her dagger against black vines, and Moira is free too.

“Are you—”

“ _Fine,_ ” Moira snaps.

She shoves Cassandra’s hand away and heaves herself to her feet without help, clutching the rim of the jardinière. The blood smears starkly across the waxy pallor of her face; she does not look at Cassandra.

“Isn’t this _precious,_ ” Sugracha snarls. Cassandra turns just in time to see the witch thread herself back into the shape of a woman: moss and brambles layering like muscle over a glistening white skull. A thin layer of cobwebby skin crawls over her face. Her hair hangs in unkempt tangles to her waist; a mantle of wet, dark fur wicks out of the night, robing the squirming vegetation of her body in shadow.

She laughs, her eyes _blazing_ green.

The pale-haired woman advances on her, hefting the black longsword. “Release the Sundrop,” she says, in a voice hard and sharp enough to cut glass. “Now.”

Sugracha grins. “It’s been _so_ long since one of your Order challenged me last.” She crooks her fingers, and her fallen cane leaps into her hand, trailing oily flecks of shadow. “I’ve rather missed it.”

Silent, the pale-haired woman charges, bringing the sword around in a vast arc. Emerald light pours down the length of the cane as Sugracha lifts it to intercept the blow, and the two meet in mid-air with a peal of thunder and a shower of blue sparks.

Briars spindle out of the cane, hooking around the dark blade, and Sugracha presses forward and _twists,_ forcing the sword down with a strength belied by her gaunt frame; then she peels back her lips from her gleaming fangs and spits something dark and slimy into her opponent’s eyes.

The pale-haired woman reels back with a cry of shock or pain, and vines whirl out from the shadows of the henge, snaring her arms as Sugracha turns the cane again and rips the longsword out of the woman’s grip—

“ _Adira!_ ”

Lance barrels toward them, from where Eugene is— wrestling with Rapunzel and Varian—

His sword flashes in the green firelight as he hacks at the vines, yelping and hopping as more and _more_ slither out of the darkness; one loops around his ankle and yanks him to the ground, but by then Adira has rolled free and slid a long steel dagger from her belt. Black ichor oozes down her face; one of her eyes is squeezed shut, but the other narrows in concentration.

She leaps—

Cassandra tightens her grip on her knife, swaying as she tries to follow the nauseating blur of the battle. Steel and vines and _Sugracha_ —melting from shape to shape, human and incomprehensible mass of bramble and bone and emerald fire, a chitinous spidery thing with glistening pincers, a hissing catlike beast with a hundred snarling mouths and _too many legs_ —

Whenever Adira gets close enough to sever the brambles holding _whatever Sugracha is_ together, they simply _regrow:_ new tendrils spinning out of the darkness.

Lance recovers his footing and charges again, but the vines catch him across the stomach and slam him down again; and though Adira is nimbler on her feet, Sugracha drives her steadily toward the cliff.

“W- we have t-to—”

 _Help;_ but Cassandra takes a step away from the jardinière and her legs fold beneath her, useless.

Her hand throbs. Pain hooks into her cheek and drags her head away from the battle.

The idol.

It seethes, twitching. Darkness and fire and ichor bubble down its snowy flanks. The fanged mouth dangles open in a cruel leer, green light foaming between the teeth, and she hears it in her mind; a croon, an echo; a slippery whisper percolating between her thoughts.

_cas s an d ra._

Cassandra crawls up the jardinière, feeling an absurd rush of gratitude when Moira cracks out of her rigid slouch and turns to help her. She sags against Moira with her head drooping into the crook of the pirate’s shoulder, whimpering.

“Help me?”

Her head pounds. Her skull is splintering apart at the seams, torn open by the velvety tendrils of Zhan Tiri’s whispers; and the demonic voice slithers deeper and deeper, burrs of it snagging on half-remembered fragments of her past and rooting into the tatters of old dreams; searching for a place to _hook,_ and she’s _running out of time now now now they need to do it_ now _before—_

Moira curls her hands around Cassandra’s shoulders and braces her up so she can stumble closer to the idol. A warm breath furls against her neck; the voice turns darker and foul. She clutches the knife, the clammy hilt.

… _no!_

She lunges or falls and Zhan Tiri roars like the surf in her ears, and Cassandra slams her dagger down between the hunched shoulders of the idol.

And the whole world flares white.

## ❦

Obsidian waves roar up, flecked green and crowned in hoarfrost; crash _down_ and plunge her into the devouring sea. Through the clear glaze of the surface shines a terrible black radiance, a lightless gleam that dwindles as kelp winds around her legs and drags her down.

The water screams and _screams_ and—

—a pockmarked tendril; whorled teeth, jaundiced chitin speckled green, crimson spines barbing from a charcoaled shell, ripples of lurid flesh; she _sees_ —

 _Water;_ phosphorescent, spitting moonlit froth on the ridges of a basalt coast and the tidal surge is the sigh of the great beast that will swallow the world. Cassandra crouches among saw-edged teeth of volcanic glass and stares into the abyssal gullet at the end of all things and deep, _deep_ where the salt-choked glow stains to ink there is a livid nautilus shell cloaked in rime; beneath the barbed hood a thousand dentate stamen unfurl and the carpel-beak yawns wide, chitinous vermillion laved by a maggoty tongue; the vast glaucous eye oozes, the pinprick pupil weeping roots of dark pitch that stretch eternally down to the firmament where stars burrow like seeds and root and _grow;_ a hunger, inescapable—

 _—nothing is over until the_ end _._

_Boar-heart—_

## ❦

Thunder shakes the promontory as golden lightning laces the sky. Cassandra finds herself airborne—the frozen ground rushes to meet her and her teeth rattle and sparks burst in her eyes; she skids over the ice, a wrenching pain exploding in her shoulder.

Something hard hits her in the back and she rolls into the fetid shadows puddling beneath the henge-stones, tasting bile and blood. A warm hand digs into her shoulder, holding her down. Withered leaves and sharp granules of frost scratch her cheeks.

The noise, the noise, the _noise—!_

It ends in a slow dwindling down; the fiery radiance fading like a sunset into bruised and shimmering afterimages, the calamitous thunder echoing itself to sleep.

Silence shrouds the night.

A heavy, grinding, painful silence, plastered over the familiar creaking of stones moving underground. Someone pants raggedly next to her ear.

Moira, crouched over her. A hand against her shoulder, smoothing down her spine.

An aftershock rolls along the promontory, once, and from below comes the sound of cold surf hammering against the cliffs.

And then everything lies still.


	29. Chapter 28: With Stones Like Teeth

###  **Chapter 28: With Stones Like Teeth**

Wincing, Cassandra sits up.

The brittle shadows of the henge-stone flake away like withered leaves. Inky specks worm through her eyes, fading into smudges of yellow and green before they give way to indifferent moonlight.

She blinks.

Black rocks rupture the pale circle of the henge. Serrated ridges of them crest in and out of the ground like the fossilized coils of a sea-serpent; thinner, thornier formations branch away and skitter across the snow. They’ve cracked the jardinière down the middle, and rise in a jagged crown around the twisted trunk of the yew tree.

All that’s left of the idol is a pile of dirty snow spitted by rock, and the cracked, lifeless skull.

Her head pounds. When she closes her eyes again, the darkness wriggles in nauseating spirals. Moira mutters into her ear, but the words melt and blur and she stares in numb confusion until Moira rolls her eyes, grips her shoulder in one hand and her wrist in the other, and pops her arm back into its socket without any preamble. The pain hardly registers.

“Thanks,” Cassandra mumbles, swaying.

The wind rouses itself again, moaning over the ridges of stone. There’s an ominous rustle that makes her head snap around—

She finds a thicket. Messy cobwebs of bramble and sinew strung between spears of rock, dangling little shells and bits of bone, black pincers and yellow fangs, clumps of moss and meat; all slick with oozing, brackish sludge. Half of a pale hand bobbles at the end of a long ribbon of skin, the fingers spasming.

Sugracha. Or—what’s left.

A black blade stabs through the leaves and flicks down, and Adira emerges through drooping curtains of vegetation with a wet cough. She mops dark ichor off her face, leans over, and spits out a wad of soggy leaves.

“…Huh,” she says. 

“Did we win?” Lance, croaking. Vines slide off his chests and coil into his lap as he pushes himself off the ground. “ _Hrk–_ ooh, oh, th- _those’re_ my’ ribs—”

“We should build a fire,” Adira says, mild. “Assess injuries, and consider our next move.”

She gathers a fistful of the sash tied around her waist and uses it to wipe her sword clean, then sheathes the blade over her shoulder as she strides out of the bramble. Lance wheezes an agreement and springs up with tottering enthusiasm to follow her out of the henge, and then it’s quiet again.

Moira slides her hand off Cassandra’s shoulder. Stony-faced, she stands and steps out of the small hollow where the henge-stone presses into the earth.

“Moira—”

She stalks across the henge, threading between the rocks, to the jardinière. A small heap of weapons rests against its base; their sabers, and a miniature armory of daggers. Moira crouches and begins to sift through the smaller blades, jerkily.

Guilt floods Cassandra’s insides with grimy slush, lacerated by a splintering fear that she’s burnt the last bridge she had left to burn. She scuffles her way out of the clinging shadows under the henge-stone and wobbles after Moira, stooping to retrieve her dagger from the snow, wondering what to _say_ —

“Sunshine– Sun— _Rapunzel,_ no, no _no!_ ”

Eugene’s terror sparks a panic that sears away everything else, and Cassandra lurches toward his voice; her head spins and her legs feel like melting wax and nausea grabs her by the throat; livid shadows boil in the corners of her eyes.

“Raps—”

The promontory tilts gently. She slides along it and piles up against one of the obsidian ridges, panting.

“Come on, Rapunzel, wake up, wake up—”

Eugene kneels on the other side, in a circle of bare ice carved by the black rocks; gathering Rapunzel’s limp body into his arms. Sunlight pulsates in her hair, glinting on the ice, and her chest rises, slow, and falls with a shudder. She’s breathing.

Cassandra flops over the ridge and crashes onto her knees. “Is- is she…”

He gives her a sharp, careful glance. His arms curl around Rapunzel, every inch of his posture etched in wariness, and the rest of the question withers in her throat.

_Traitor, remember?_

“…Eugene, I—”

_didn’t want, didn’t mean, didn’t intend–_

But what does any of that matter? Cassandra swallows hard, looking away, shamed.

Her gaze lands on Varian. He slumps on the frozen ground not far from Eugene and Rapunzel, and _that,_ at least, she can—

She staggers. Varian groans as she drops to her knees at his side.

“Hey, kid.” His face feels like cold wax under her fingertips. She pats his cheek, insistent, and his eyes twitch behind their lids. He whimpers. “Varian! Come on, kid, wake up.”

A senseless noise trickles past his lips. Then: “…Cass?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Come on.”

One eye cracks open, then the other, both hazy with moonlight. Varian shivers. His hand floats up to cradle his scarred jaw as she helps him sit up.

“Wh– _ahh…”_

“You okay, kid?”

What a _stupid_ question— He droops against her arm, staring, glassy and unfocused; his pupils blown wide and black and empty as fields blasted by fire. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he won’t remember the ordeal.

But a violent tremor wracks his shoulders. His fingers quake as he covers his mouth, but they can’t stem the broken tide of his whispers. “ _O-oh–_ I’m s- I’m sorry, I’m _sorry,_ I-I– I didn’t m-mean t—”

Cassandra drags him into a tight hug, and he makes a shattered little sound, throws his arms around her, and bursts into loud, wrenching sobs.

“Hey, hey, it’s… it’s okay…” Meaningless nonsense. She rubs his back, casting about for something more helpful to say; she has never been much good at comfort. “Shh, shhh, I’ve got you, you’re okay, it’s over… It’s over…”

She shuffles them around so she can watch Eugene caress Rapunzel’s ashen face, her pulse throbbing in her ears.

_Come on, Raps._

_Please—_

“Sunshine? …Sunshine!”

The ice in her vein thaws as Rapunzel mumbles, quiet, wordless. Her eyelids flutter. The golden radiance in her hair ebbs, seeming to flow back into her skin like a receding tide and bringing color back into her cheeks. When she opens her eyes, they shine a deep, clear, vivid green. Like spring leaves, like summer fields, like fresh growth; brighter and livelier than the poisoned-emerald gleam of Sugracha’s.

A brittle tension she’s carried in her chest since she left Herzingen cracks and flows away. Cassandra closes her eyes, relaxing, slumped, and breathes.

“Eu- Eugene?”

He laughs or sobs, and bends to press his forehead against hers. “Hey, Sunshine. Oh– _Rapunzel!_ You know you- you really had me going there, for a minute.”

Rapunzel wriggles up to kiss him, clinging to his jacket collar, and something pricks at the underside of her relief; like briars in her lungs.

_Stop it. Don’t–_

Her fingers twitch. The stars glitter down in icy indifference while she stamps the thorny feeling flat and sweeps it aside. She isn’t. She doesn’t– she does not have _feelings for—_

“…Wait,” Rapunzel says, “ _Cass?!_ ”

Surprise ignites in her face and bursts into unfiltered joy; the light of her smile feels like sunshine burning through the thickets of Cassandra’s mind. She blinks.

“Hi, Raps.” Her voice cracks. Rapunzel saves her from needing to say anything else by lunging at her with a strangled cry; she grunts as the Princess engulfs her in a hug, and tries to ignore the hole Eugene stares into her cheek.

“You’re _here!_ Oh, Cass, I’ve been so worried– where have you _been?_ Where did you go— what happened? Are you okay?!”

“Am _I…?_ ”

Of all the ways she imagined Rapunzel might react to her return, teary enthusiasm is the last– it isn’t even on the _list_. Confusion, betrayal, fear—or anger, even—or disappointment, for everything she’s done.

Not… hugs.

“Rapunzel—”

“I _knew_ you’d come,” Rapunzel whispers, thick with tears but radiant; Cassandra swallows a squeak as Rapunzel’s fingers dig deeper into her shoulder and pain flares. “I’m so sorry, Cass, you must have been so _scared,_ I tried to– but S-Sugarby—”

“R- Raps—”

Little jots of light burst in her eyes as Rapunzel grips her tighter. She wheezes, and Rapunzel makes a startled, apologetic noise and releases her, sits up, wipes at her eyes. Bloody sap smears her cheek. Her hair flutters in the breeze, shimmering.

She gazes into Cassandra’s face with something close to rapture. Her eyes track back and forth, back and forth, devouring every cut, every bruise, every tangled curl, every piece of grit and grime; like nothing _matters_ but the fact of her presence.

It makes her spine _itch._ Not… unpleasantly, but she squirms under the scrutiny even so, glancing at Eugene for– for support, an explanation, _something._ His mouth presses into a hard line.

“Yeah, Cass,” he says curtly. “Where _have_ you been?”

He punctuates the question with a pointed glance over her shoulder; toward the jardinière, the tree. Moira. She gulps.

“…Well—”

“Oh, _no,_ ” Rapunzel gasps, with a sudden inexplicable clarity. She grabs at Cassandra’s shoulder again, her eyes huge. “She got you too, didn’t she? Sugar– I mean, Sugracha. That’s _it,_ isn’t it? Oh, Cass, is that why—?”

_Lie._

_Say yes._

Temptation like steel striking flint. A sharp, bright shock. She can give Rapunzel the comfort of a friend who fell victim to a witch’s curse, not a traitor, not someone who picked up a shovel and dug this grave with ambition and cowardice and stubborn pride.

Quivering, Cassandra unsticks her jaw. “A- about… that. Raps, what _happened?_ That- that— that _thing_ said she was your _art teacher?!_ And Varian’s—”

“Arieta,” Varian mumbles into her shoulder. “She… said.”

He lapses into broken silence, fretful and fidgeting, and Cassandra lifts her hand to the back of his head. His hair, grimy and unkempt.

“I- I ran away. From—Herrfeld. She found me and, and she s-said we– m-my Dad… we- we could…”

“… _Oh._ Oh, kid–”

 _It must have been so easy._ Varian, lost and scared and reeling from what he had done to his patients; and Sugracha— dull, helpless anger twists in her gut as Varian shudders and starts to cry again.

“Th-thanks. For coming, for t-trying to—”

Nodding, Cassandra tucks him under her chin, stroking his hair; she stares into the thick gloom between Eugene’s scrutiny and Rapunzel’s rapt, ravenous attention.

_If the black rocks hadn’t killed her, I would._

“—and I’m sorry,” Varian gasps. “I’m s- I really didn’t, I d- _didn’t_ want to hurt—”

“I know,” Cassandra murmurs. “I know you didn’t, kid.”

“What that— _woman_ made you do isn’t your fault,” Eugene agrees. He scoots closer to Rapunzel, shrugging out of his shredded jacket, and tucks it gently around her shoulders. “That goes for you too, Sunshine.”

Rapunzel jolts. Her hands flutter up, birdlike, to clutch at the jacket’s fastenings, and she blinks at long last. Something unpleasant slithers into her expression as she looks down at her arms, the blood-slicked leaves and little flowers growing out of her skin. The last motes of light in her hair gutter out.

Rubbing her shoulders briskly, Eugene adds, “Where’d Adira and Lance get to? Are they—”

“They’re fine. Getting wood– for a fire. Raps, are… you okay?”

Silence answers. Rapunzel swallows with a wet clicking noise, and her face hardens like fired clay. Moving stiffly, she grabs a fistful of foliage and rips it away. A hiss slides between her teeth; she flinches, baring her teeth to the night. Honeyed sap wells out of her torn flesh.

“ _Hey_ —”

“Wait, Rapunzel—”

“She _hurt,_ ” Rapunzel snarls, “my _friends._ ”

Blood mists the air as she tears away another clump of leaves. Cassandra rocks forward to catch her before she can grab a third. “No– here.”

The hilt of her dagger freezes her fingers as she pulls it from her boot. She gazes into Rapunzel’s face, her vicious, shattered glare, and reconsiders.

“…Maybe Eugene should–”

“Yeah,” he says at once, holding out his hand. Cassandra solemnly presses the dagger into his palm, and his voice softens into a gentle murmur. “Here, Rapunzel, let me.”

She quivers. Tears gather in her eyes and drip down her cheeks in a silent, steady stream. But she bows her head, and offers Eugene her arm.

The steel gleams like silver. Cradling her forearm in his free hand, Eugene skims the blade down, smooth and careful. Small blossoms and leaves rain down, and the breeze carries them away. Rapunzel sniffles.

“Is- is everyone okay?” she mumbles.

“Everyone’s fine, Raps. I think Lance got the worst of it, but he’s on his feet. Rocks didn’t get anyone except, you know. Sugracha.”

Images of the eviscerated thicket swim in the dark behind her eyelids. Luxuriant carnage.

_Disgusting._

“…It’s over,” she adds.

“ _Is_ it?”

Eugene poses the question as steadily and calmly as he cuts the clinging tendrils away from Rapunzel’s fingers. Suspicion flows off him in icy waves. Cassandra stiffens.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, Cass _an_ dra, you tell me. I mean, let’s see, you… steal the Journal of Herz der Sonne, sneak Separatists into the city—”

“That’s not—”

“—then _disappear,_ and next thing we hear you’re inciting _rebellion_ —”

“—I didn’t _incite_ —”

“—and now you’re back,” he continues evenly, as he plucks a leaf from under Rapunzel’s fingernail, then kisses her fingertips with a murmured apology when she winces. “On the same night plant lady over there attacked Herzingen, kidnapped Rapunzel and Varian, and turned them into _puppets_ to summon _Zhan Tiri._ ”

He bounces the blade of her dagger on his knee, frowning at her, and then glances over her shoulder again. A nerve in his jaw pulses.

“With _Ornella,_ ” he adds, stretching out the name as he reaches for Rapunzel’s other arm. Cassandra’s stomach shrivels into a dry lump. “Who, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume, _isn’t_ the ‘personal librarian to the Duchess of Quintonia.’”

 _How_ —

He can’t have gotten more than a glimpse of Moira in the weird green light as he charged into the henge, and it’s so _unfair_ for him to recognize—

Swallowing the absurd impulse to burst into tears herself, Cassandra whispers, “Her name’s Moira.”

“Uh-huh. Of course.”

Worse than the accusation—and he isn’t _wrong,_ is he?—is the little grain of doubt in Rapunzel’s expression now. The teary trickle of uncertainty as she peeks at Cassandra through the curtain of her hair.

“…Cass?”

“It- it’s been. A strange few weeks.”

“I’m sure,” Eugene drawls.

“But I- I _wasn’t_ — I was not _in on this,_ if that’s what you’re trying to— I’m not—”

“ _Really?_ Because you looked real comfy kneeling—”

The clatter of hooves on frozen ground cuts him off, and Lance crows, “Everybody’s up! What’d we miss?”

“…Lance, buddy—”

Cassandra pushes her hair out of her face, sinking miserably into herself while Lance, Adira, and—Xavier? of all people—lead four horses into the henge. Max, his pale coat streaked pink where Sugracha’s brambles cut him before he bolted; and Fidella, and Lance’s Axel, both snorting skittishly but unhurt; and a dark roan she doesn’t recognize. There’s a small stack of logs lashed to the roan’s saddle, and Adira carries two bundles of scraggly pine branches under her arms.

“Is anyone badly hurt?” Xavier asks as he and Lance tether the horses.

“No– just cuts and bruises, thank the stars. Lance, you alright?”

“Been better,” Lance grunts. “Cracked rib, I think.”

Adira vaults over the ridge of black rock and, squatting, arranges her branches in a tight mat on the ice. As she works, she murmurs, “Varian?”

He cringes, but bit by bit, he tilts his head away from Cassandra’s shoulder, peeking at Adira through his lank bangs.

“Y-yeah?”

“I think someone wants to see you.”

“…Who–?” Scrubbing his eyes, Varian slides shakily out from under Cassandra’s arm. A soft chitter furls out of the night, and he gasps. “ _Ruddiger?_ ”

Adira smiles. A pale streak of fur flows over the ridge and barrels into Varian’s arms, chattering noisily, and Varian scoops up the raccoon with an inarticulate cry.

“ _Ruddiger!!_ Oh, buddy, I’m so, _so_ sorry—”

“He led me to you, in the tunnels,” Adira says gently. “We’re both glad to find you safe.”

Varian nods, mumbling into Ruddiger’s fur; the raccoon churrs happily, nosing at the kid’s chin.

“…I’m- I’m sorry,” Rapunzel says, staring blankly at Adira. “Who are you…?”

“Princess.” Still smiling, Adira straightens from her crouch and goes to retrieve the logs from her saddle. Over her shoulder, she adds, “I’m a friend. My name is Adira Sólyom.”

“Oh.”

“She met us on our way out of Herzingen,” Eugene sighs. He cuts the last tendril away from Rapunzel’s arms and passes the dagger back to Cassandra.

“…Oh. What…” Rapunzel sinks into his arms, knuckling her eyes. “What _happened?_ all I remember is the- the… painting.”

Her eyes flick to Cassandra’s face again, and that attentive _hunger_ sparks in their green depths for an instant; then she blinks, shuddering, and it dies.

“Sugracha,” Eugene mutters, “attacked the city. She went after Xavier first, because—”

Cassandra listens to his tale through a gathering fog of surprise. Echoes of the tremors she and Moira felt in the tunnels seem to reverberate in her limbs; she tries to imagine it—thickets swallowing Osiander Street, the shattered bridge, black rocks skewering the palace, entire blocks trapped in Varian’s amber, half the island caving in as the labyrinth collapsed—but she _can’t._

Herzingen always seemed so _strong._ It endured winter storms and sweltering summers without so much as a chip in its lustrous facade; nothing the street cleaners couldn’t sweep away come morning. It was a beautiful, gilded city, but a beauty built to _last._

“People were still evacuating when we left,” Eugene finishes at last, just audible over the crackle of Adira’s burgeoning fire. “But things quieted down after the witch left. I don’t think she brought reinforcements.”

“Are- are my parents okay?”

An awkward rictus creeps over Eugene’s face. For one awful moment, Cassandra thinks he’s about to confess that Frederic and Arianna are dead; but he just clears his throat, trading glances with Lance and Xavier. “Um… They’re fine. Oh! And, Xaves, haha, where’s Pascal?”

“Ah, yes!” Xavier booms, far too loudly. While Cassandra frowns, trying to figure out what they aren’t saying and _why,_ he reaches into the heavy folds of his coat and draws out a small wooden cage. “He’s right—ah, hello, little one. No, no, please don’t bite—”

He snatches his fingers away from the latch and passes the whole cage into Rapunzel’s waiting hands. Pascal hisses as she flips open the cage door, snapping at her fingers twice before he grudgingly clambers onto her hand. Jagged stripes of black and purple paint his sides.

“I am afraid he was not very happy in the box,” Xavier says, apologetic, while Rapunzel croons and strokes the irate chameleon’s spine. “But it, ah, seemed the safest way to transport him.”

“Aw, he’ll forgive you, won’t you, Pascal?” Rapunzel coos. She smooths her thumb along his crest, and Pascal sinks into her palm with one last angry puff. “Thank you for bringing him. I- I haven’t– I haven’t been very nice—”

Her voice cracks. She sniffs, wiping away a few more tears, as Pascal chirrups and clambers up her arm. The inky stripes fade to their usual bluish-green, and he takes up his usual perch on her shoulder, huddled against her neck.

“Now,” Xavier says, folding his hands together, “Cassandra? I have a some questions for you.”

All eyes turn to her, and she winces; but Xavier, at least, regards her without suspicion. The way her father looks at officers before they give their reports, a comparison that turns her stomach.

“…Yeah?”

“The ritual Sugracha attempted to perform,” he says. “Can you describe it?”

“The– she called it the Unbinding.”

Xavier nods. “I suspected as much. You were the third participant, yes?”

“I—” Cassandra cringes, feeling Eugene’s gaze sharpening against her jaw, and mumbles, “I didn’t have a choice; she threatened—”

Xavier lifts his hands, and Cassandra stutters into silence. The fire crackles in time with her thudding pulse. “Zhan Tiri’s scions were– _are_ masters of manipulation, Cassandra. Not only of the magical sort. It is alright. Please, just explain what happened.”

“Um.” She inhales shakily, shutting her eyes. The bands of anxiety twisted around her chest ease, just a little. “We… were in the tunnels, looking for Rapunzel. Sugracha caught us, attacked—when I woke up we were all… here.”

Slimy remnants of her dreams twine around her thoughts. Black skies, and light flowing like honey. Silt and water and a voice curling into her ear. Stories…

Frowning, Cassandra rubs the back of her neck. “Rapunzel and Varian built this… idol, out of snow, and stuff. Sugracha said if I didn’t do as she instructed she’d- she’d hurt them. S- so…”

Sugracha hadn’t told her what to _do,_ though, she realizes, with a cold trickle of discomfort. She had just… _known,_ instinctively, or else the knowledge had been planted in her mind while she dreamt.

“…It…” She stumbles, and wets her lips. “It went wrong, I think, when you interrupted, a- and then, during the fight, I… stabbed the idol, and there was that big flash of– and then, I guess, the rocks. I didn’t see exactly– but— but it’s _over,_ isn’t it?”

Xavier sighs, rubbing the frazzled hairs of his beard. “There are not many accounts of the Unbinding _failing,_ ” he muses. “It is dependable, as rituals go. But—if you were the unbinder, and you destroyed the effigy, then, yes. That should be the end of it.”

Cassandra slumps, feeling almost sick with relief. For once, for _once,_ maybe she got something right.

“You’re _sure?_ ”

Amusement glints in his eyes. “The magic of the Unbinding relies on will, and choice; in performing it as… she did, Sugracha left herself no room for error—let alone rebellion. Also,” he adds dryly, “I am certain we would _know,_ if Zhan Tiri were now free. His vengeance would be terrible and swift.”

“Her,” Cassandra says without thinking.

Then her mind catches up with her mouth, and she blanches as everyone _looks_ at her again. Lance coughs into his hand in a transparent effort to mask a snicker. Adira blinks, indifferent. Xavier just looks puzzled.

“Pardon?”

“Zhan– Zhan Tiri, she’s…” _Crēzáthan. The Lady._ Cassandra twists her hands together in her lap, feeling heat crawl into her face. “…Z- _za,_ not- not _śa._ ”

“Cass,” Eugene says, “those are the _same words—”_

“ _Never mind!_ ” she shrills. “The important thing is she’s still trapped! Right! And Sugracha’s…”

A very gristly thicket.

“…Dead? I think.”

“Seems so,” Adira says, sounding amused.

“ _Right!_ ”

Cassandra wraps her arms around her knees and stares hard into the fire, her face burning hotter than the flames. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Adira turns to Varian and asks him quietly when he last ate, and the tension eases. Eugene gets up and comes back with a saddlebag full of bandages and ointment for Rapunzel’s arms; Lance inches closer to the fire, massaging his ribs with a grimace; and Xavier wanders away to poke at the remnants of the idol.

Her palm tingles where she touched it. Five shallow gashes crown the knuckles of her left hand, scored by the idol’s clutching, icy talons when she tore herself free; inflamed and itchy, but not bleeding.

She makes a fist, and the scratches sting.

_Zhan Tiri._

Ancient evil spirit. Corona’s oldest enemy.

The whisper of the breeze through the henge sounds like rattling laughter. It scrapes over the spindling needles of the yew and ripples with the hollow keening of the black rocks, hissing in her ears.

Like an echo.

 _Zhan Tiri_ was in her _head._

Shuddering, Cassandra turns away from the fire, to the cracked jardinière spilling loam and coils of roots like entrails, to the yew tree seething and gnarled in a throne of black rock—

And Moira, who’s gazing out to sea; slouched with her back to their group, leaning against the last henge-stone before the promontory crumbles into sheer cliff.

Her stomach twists, snared in guilt and a chilly backdraft of shame. She rakes her teeth over her lip and gets to her feet, wobbling.

“…Cass?”

“I’ll be right back, Raps.”

The cold slinks around her as she clambers out of their circle of rock, and a stiff ache seeps into her shoulder. She draws her cloak tighter around herself, limping past the horses, and Xavier, and the jardinière and the looming tree, until her nerve falters and her feet drift to a stop.

Moira doesn’t look around, but tension gathers in her shoulders as the silence stretches out between them. Her hair’s come undone and flags in the wind; she’s buckled her saber to her belt again, and grips the one she loaned to Cassandra in both hands.

If she’s hurt worse than the scratches Sugracha’s brambles gave her, it doesn’t show. Small comforts.

“Your friends okay?” she says at length, flat.

“I… don’t know,” Cassandra mutters. It’s the only thing she can think of; she takes an inching step closer, slipping uneasily back into Saporian. “Is she?”

Moira laughs; quiet, bitter, a cold, polished snicker as she swivels around with her lips twisted in a sneer.

“Slick, honey.”

“I’m not trying to be–” Her breath hitches. For the second time tonight she feels abruptly, _stupidly_ like crying. “Look, I— I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” she says. “I put you and- and the crew in danger, I was selfish—”

“ _Yeah._ ” Moira snorts. “You just figuring that out now?”

She flinches. Even if it’s fair. “…I _am_ sorry. And I understand if you– if that’s… it. I- I mean–”

It’s barely been a month since she charged into Alcorsīa with no plans and nothing but anger roaring in her chest, and Moira’s been a better friend to her than she deserves. Insufferably smug attitude and all. That she might have squandered all of it _hurts._

She swallows against the spiky lump forming in her throat, and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“Talk’s cheap, honey.” Moira crooks an eyebrow, settling back against the henge-stone. “You know that.”

“…I… know.”

The wind whistles. Moira holds the silence and watches Cassandra with same narrow thoughtfulness she did when Cassandra told her to keep the Journal.

“Sugracha and I,” Moira says, finally, “had such an interesting _chat_ while you were out.”

_Of course. Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they!_

“Don’t give me that _look_ —”

“Moira she tried to kill you—”

“Oh, honey, it’s nice of you to care,” Moira purrs, leaning closer with mirth glittering in her eyes, “but I like my odds with a scion better than with a noose.” She glances sideways, smirking, and her voice pitches low. “You know she’s not dead, right? Look.”

Against her better judgment, Cassandra looks.

The grotesque thicket she had taken for Sugracha’s corpse crawls along the side of the henge, close. Small beetles with jade carapaces scuttle industriously along the drooping vines, and the pitch pooling beneath the vegetation is alive and squirming with dark maggots, millipedes, spidery little crab-things with glittering green eyes.

Her heart sinks.

Moira’s arm slinks around her waist and, with her lips a breath away from Cassandra’s ear, murmurs, “So, honey, what’ll it be? The _Zampermin’ll_ be here in another hour. You can keep your mouth shut and come along. Or stay. Stick with the Princess. Run around playing hero all alone.”

She slides away, lounging easily against the henge-stone again, and lifts her eyebrows.

“What do you _want,_ Cassandra?”

“I—”

Stars, she doesn’t _know_ anymore. She feels hollowed out and stuffed with ash; bled dry by disgust with herself and her failures, with every mistake that led her down this path, and somehow strangled in shame for not having the guts to finish what she started.

Torn in half and a traitor both ways.

One of the spider-crabs tilts, glinting up at her with a pair of pinprick green eyes. It winks, and burrows backwards into the pitch.

“I’m tired,” Cassandra mutters.

Admitting it cuts her legs out from under her; she slides down the henge-stone, flopping onto the frozen ground, and cradles her head in the crook of her arm. She shuts her eyes, because it’s easier.

Moira crouches next to her. Her fingers settle on along the curve of her neck, callused, warm.

“Come to Quintonia with me,” she says quietly. “Or anywhere. Anywhere you want. To hell with _here_.”

“…Quintonia sounds good.”

 _Anywhere_ that isn’t Corona would sound good right now. And she wants to curl up in her bunk and sleep for a week. For a _month._

“Okay.” Moira bumps the hilt of her borrowed saber against Cassandra’s knee, offering. “Hell of a night, huh.”

“Yeah.” Sniffling, Cassandra uncurls from her miserable ball enough to take the saber. Moira squeezes her neck. “…Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Did she hurt you? Besides…”

The mark from Sugracha’s cane is livid against Moira’s throat, scabbed over, with a long train of smeared blood, and Moira makes an indecipherable little noise when Cassandra touches the bruises blossoming next to it.

“I’ve… had worse,” she drawls, cupping Cassandra’s elbow. “Come on. We can’t let the Coronans hog all the fire, hm?”

A reluctant smile tugs at her mouth. She lets Moira pull her to her feet, and turns firmly away from the thicket to buckle on the saber. Tomorrow, she’ll write Rapunzel a letter—warn her—but…

_Lance and Rapunzel are injured, Varian’s just a kid. The rocks were a fluke, and they couldn’t even kill her. And she razed a whole city by herself._

_If we attack her again now, she’ll destroy us._

So she’ll just… keep her mouth shut. And they’ll all live to fight another day.

Then Moira calls out, in almost-pleasant Coronan, “The hell d’you think you’re doing?”

Across the henge, Rapunzel stops mid-step. Fresh bandages swaddle her arms, and she clutches a torch whose crackling flames paint uncertain shadows over her face.

“I’m burning the tree.”

“Like _hell_ you are—”

Teeth bared, Moira lopes across the henge to put herself between Rapunzel and the jardinière; Cassandra, her stomach hardening with fresh dread, trails after her.

“It’s evil,” Rapunzel says tightly.

“It’s not _yours._ ”

“Get out of my way—”

Rapunzel takes a step, and Moira draws her saber with a quick, languid ease. There’s a sudden, panicked scramble around the fire, a flood of outrage into Rapunzel’s glare—

“ _Make me,_ ” Moira snarls.

The tip of the saber rests lightly in the hollow of Rapunzel’s throat. Nobody moves; Cassandra rocks in place behind the jardinière, stricken.

Tutting, Moira chirps, “Aw, _princess._ Used to getting your way, aren’t you? But not tonight. Not this.”

Eugene breaks the stillness first. He steps up beside Rapunzel, one hand on the pommel of his sword. “Put the sword _down_ ,” he snaps. “Now—”

“No—” Stupid, _stupid,_ but Cassandra lunges forward anyway, heart hammering in her throat. “She’s- she’s right.”

Their surprise crashes into her like the icy surf; a sharp glance from Moira, Eugene’s furrowing brow—and raw betrayal cracks over Rapunzel’s face, hurt blooming in her eyes. Her stomach twists.

“It’s- i-it’s— Raps, listen—”

“You,” Moira drawls, tapping the underside of Rapunzel’s chin with her saber, “don’t get to have one bad night and burn down thousands of years of _our_ culture to make yourself _feel_ better.” She sneers. “ _Princess._ ”

“But it’s—” Frustration laces Rapunzel’s protest as she pushes the blade out of her face. “—it’s _Zhan Tiri’s,_ it’s _evil_ — Cass—”

Terror for Moira blurs together with terror of what Sugracha might _do_ if they try to destroy her mistress’s tree; and coiled like a viper beneath the fear—

_Sirin isn’t evil._

A witch. A murderer. Desperate, and grieving, and _scared_ —

Her _aunt._

“…Raps…” The lining of her throat feels coated in rime. Her voice scrapes out of her, hoarse. “It’s not… that simple.”

“Nothing is,” Moira hums. “Run home to your _palace,_ princess; this isn’t for you.”

Strained silence. Lance and Xavier have drifted up behind Eugene, looking wary; Adira is on her feet by the fire, arms folded and watching with narrowed eyes.

Xavier takes one more step, his expression troubled. “The tree is a well of Zhan Tiri’s power—”

“ _Cresezáhan,_ ” Moira says crisply. “It has a _name—”_

“—so it would be safest to destroy—”

“ _Safest,_ ” she scoffs. “You wanna talk _safe?_ Corona left Charcāthēn in ruins. You tore _our_ cities apart, slaughtered _our_ priests, destroyed _our_ shrines— it’s _our tree!_ ” She sweeps the sword down, breathing hard. “ _Hānodh zatén Crēzáthan dhamógh rién shā_ —hound take you, go to _hell._ ”

Xavier recoils, though whether he understands the spiteful curse or he’s just startled by the snarling sibilance of her Saporian, Cassandra couldn’t say. Moira seethes at them all. The silence pulls taut as a bowstring.

The wind _leaps,_ screaming, and the torch whiffs out in Rapunzel’s hand. A plume of dying smoke curls away, just visible in the moonlight, and the others shift in evident discomfort.

“…Cass,” Rapunzel whispers, “are you—” She stops. Lowers the torch, clasping with both hands, trembling. “You… don’t– _agree_ with her.”

It’s not quite a question, and it falls, limp and plaintive, at Cassandra’s feet. The wind snickers past.

“…Do you…? You c-can’t.”

Even in the moonlight, Rapunzel’s eyes are very green. Cassandra stares into them, wishing she could somehow press the contortions of her thoughts straight into Rapunzel’s head; _show_ her the crumbling, headless statue brooding over Alcorsīa’s starving port, or Maríe and Edhna and the other children picking over the burnt husk of the constabulary, or Sirin with piceous ichor dripping down her ruined arm and the pain and _fear_ shining in her eyes—

“I– yeah,” Cassandra rasps. “Yeah, I… do.”

Rapunzel’s whole face crumples. She screws her eyes shut, hiking her shoulders up to her ears. “You– you really did steal the Journal,” she says thickly. “Didn’t you.”

“Well,” Moira croons, “she _helped._ ”

“ _Moira,_ I _swear_ —”

“And you… were really at Socona,” Rapunzel says, even softer. “F-fighting.”

Snickering, Moira slings an arm around Cassandra’s waist, and Cassandra sags. “Yeah. That… too.”

“I don’t–” Swaying, Rapunzel lets the torch fall, wipes at her eyes. The splintering remnants of her resolve shift, kaleidoscopic, from shattered confusion to a helpless plea and then to jagged anger. “I don’t _understand._ You’re a _Separatist?_ I thought- Cass, I thought we were friends.”

“It’s not like that,” Cassandra says hurriedly, before Moira can spit out the venomous remark she can feel coming. “I’m not a– and we _are_ friends, it’s just- it’s complicated—”

“I really don’t see how,” Eugene says cooly.

“You _wouldn’t._ Rapunzel—”

But, stars, what can she even say? How can she even _begin_ to explain— _Gee, Rapunzel! You’re my best friend but Dad kidnapped me after Corona murdered my family and oh, by the way, my aunt is the demon-worshipper who cut you open two months ago! And she’s been working with Sugracha this whole time!_

_Isn’t that great?!_

No. Whatever chance she might have had to salvage her friendship with Rapunzel, it died when she picked her side in Socona.

She _knew_ that, she _accepted_ that, but–

“Listen,” she mutters, “Raps, just… go back to Herzingen, alright? I’m- I’m leaving with—”

Moira _smirks._ She can _feel_ it, and her face burns.

_Stars above._

“…We’re only here tonight because I wanted to make sure you were safe,” she adds, a little desperate. _Not to hurt you, not to free Zhan Tiri, not to crush whatever hopes you had about me._ “Just… I’m sorry. Please go home.”

To live her life in her ruined city while Cassandra flees the country, like the coward she is. She winces.

“Cass—”

Xavier clears his throat. “I am… sorry to say, I think it very unwise for the Princess to return to Herzingen for the time being.”

“Well, then, Anbruch, or Kongsburg or wherever—”

“No, it… isn’t that.” Eugene coughs, exchanging an awkward, guilty glance with Xavier. “Uh. _Well._ Gilbert sort of… staged a coup.”

“He did what.”

“ _What?!_ ” 

“Sunshine—” Wincing, Eugene rubs his hands over Rapunzel’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. We should’ve mentioned… before. But in! In our defense there’s no non-terrible way to say, ‘hey, Rapunzel, your mean uncle took advantage of all the chaos to force your dad to abdicate, by the way—’”

“—but my parents—”

“They’re… fine. It wasn’t like– there was no actual _violence._ Just, uh. Threats. But Gilbert’s running the show now, so—”

“He will try to consolidate his power in the aftermath of the crisis,” Xavier says gravely. “That is always the way. He will watch Frederic very closely. I wager that if you returned to the city, Princess, you would face the same scrutiny.”

Panic flashes across her face. “Then what- what can I _do?_ ”

“Traditionally,” Xavier murmurs, “the children of deposed monarchs leave the country until the dust settles and they can return with, ah, international support.”

“Maybe we could find Willow?” Eugene says weakly.

“Or, if I may make a suggestion, Princess?” Rapunzel nods, looking rattled, and Xavier offers her a sympathetic smile. “Let us return to the fire to discuss it. It’s getting very cold.”

He leads the way, with Lance tottering at his side and Rapunzel shuffling after them, clinging to Eugene’s hand; Cassandra, Moira, and the looming yew tree forgotten.

_Gilbert. Stars—_

“How bad is that, for us?” Moira mutters out of the corner of her mouth. Her saber glides into its sheath. She looks just as startled as any of them.

“Very. It’s- it’s _really bad._ ”

“Okay.” She plucks at Cassandra’s sleeve, mouth tight. “Nothing we can do about it now. Come on.”

They trail past the horses, and when Moira leads them over the ridge of black rocks and into the warm firelight, nobody protests. Lance even scoots aside to give them room to sit. Moira slinks into it, lounging, a small, disdainful smile curling the corner of her mouth. Then she reaches up, clasps Cassandra’s wrist, and tugs her down too.

“I think,” Xavier is saying, rubbing his thumb along the spine of a leather-bound book he holds in his lap, “it would be best to share all that we know before making a decision, beginning with the rocks.”

He exchanges a glance with Adira, who sits cross-legged next to Varian; she sighs and tilts her head in a very slight acknowledgement.

“You’re a knight of the Brotherhood of the Crescent Eye, unless I am very mistaken,” Xavier says.

“You’re not,” Adira murmurs. “Though that doesn’t mean what it once did.”

“Quirin told me a little of what… happened, in Aphelion’s last days. He was a very good friend of mine. I… am sorry.”

She nods again, wearing a stoic mask that betrays nothing of her thoughts. “The desolation.”

“Indeed. Do you know why the rocks have spread so far?”

“I have a theory,” Adira replies, brisk. “That they seek the sundrop. Princess…” She sighs. Something flickers in her dark eyes as she turns to Rapunzel, though it’s gone too fast for Cassandra to decipher it. “Legends of the sundrop flower never traveled as far as Aphelion, but all my life, I’ve refused to believe a darkness such as the moonstone’s could exist without a light of equal power _somewhere_ in the world. After we evacuated the kingdom, I vowed to find it.

“About five years after your birth, I traveled far enough west to hear stories of the mythical sundrop, and the princess who had been born with its power in her hair. I came to Corona, hoping to learn more. I found the rocks where the sundrop once grew, and learnt of your unfortunate kidnapping, so. The trail rain cold, for a time.”

More shadows fill her eyes. She blinks them away.

“I’ve spent those years mapping the rocks in Corona, using this.” She touches a long, pale blue stone, which hangs from a pouch at her waist. “My _sállvatt._ It… anchors the oaths I swore to the Brotherhood long ago, and tethers me to the moonstone.”

Rapunzel fidgets in Eugene’s lap. Her eyes keep flicking to the side, like she’s fighting hard not to stare at Cassandra. “I… I know Varian said you thought the rocks were looking for me, but when I touched them—”

“Yes,” Adira says. Varian winces; she touches his shoulder lightly. “I’m aware. However, the rocks also responded to your distress tonight; interrupted the ritual, and killed the witch who harmed you.”

_Except they didn’t—_

Moira squeezes her wrist, and Cassandra swallows the protest, trying to ignore the squirming guilt in her stomach.

“It’s… possible,” Adira continues, “that touching the rocks near Herrfeld attuned them to you. They’ve been far more active in the succeeding weeks; spreading faster, in straighter lines. Every single rock that grew in Herzingen tonight is pointed squarely at your tower in the palace, Princess. They _are_ looking for you. I believe they want you to follow them.”

“I am inclined to agree,” Xavier says. “Lord Demanitus does not name it as such in this book, but he was very interested in the sundrop’s dark counterpart. Adira’s theory is consistent with his own conclusions; that the two forces longed to someday reunite. Perhaps by bringing them together, you can stop the rocks, and prevent any further harm.”

“It’s a _long_ way to Aphelion.” Adira brushes a loose wisp of hair behind her ear, pensive. “But if the moonstone senses you coming, the rocks may cease their pursuit. They will have served their purpose.”

“So it wouldn’t get… _worse,_ in Corona.” Rapunzel swallows, staring down at her bandaged hands with a terrible expression of guilt. “That’s… good.”

“One thing does concern me,” Xavier says. “That Sugracha specifically chose the _Princess_ as one of the participants in her ritual.”

“Why?”

He drums his fingers against the cover of—Demanitus’s?—book. “As I said before, the Unbinding is reliant on the will of its participants. Choice. It works best when all act of their own volition, freely, without coercion or compulsion. Sugracha went far out of her way, and took great risks, to circumvent that requirement. The only reason for her to do so is if she needed the power of the sundrop.”

Leaden silence follows this pronouncement. Rapunzel picks at her bandages, her expression dour.

And Varian mumbles, “Jinarche’s heart.”

“Ah— pardon?”

Shoulders hunching, he combs his fingers through Ruddiger’s fur. “Um. Something, hn, Arieta– I mean, Sugracha—said. I think she _did_ need them, the sundrop _and_ moonstone. She- sh- we used a fragment of Dad’s…” His voice sinks into an almost inaudible mutter. “He… had a talisman. Like Adira’s, but… broken. I put a shard of it in th- the idol.”

“I… see,” Xavier says, grim. “That is… very troubling.”

“ _So._ ” Rapunzel groans, scrubbing her hands over her face. “Zhan Tiri needs the sundrop and moonstone to escape; so if _we_ reunite them, doesn’t that… help Zhan Tiri?”

“Perhaps,” Adira says. “But Princess, I am not sure you have much choice. The rocks will continue to destroy everything in their path if you run from them.”

“I’m afraid Lord Demanitus did not include much detail on the subject in this book.” Xavier sighs, scratching his beard. “He was far more concerned with recording the servants of Zhan Tiri and their ways, so that his descendants could carry on his work of protecting the world from their evil. Nor do the other fragments of research he left behind concern the reunion of the sundrop and its counterpart. That makes it… difficult to draw conclusions about what, precisely, will happen.”

“Well,” Eugene says, sounding irked, “could you give us your best guess?”

“I think—”

“What about the Labyrinth?” Adira asks.

“Sorry, the what?”

But Xavier brightens at once. “Yes! Yes, if any of this research remains, it will of course be there. That is an excellent suggestion—”

“I know.”

“Can one of you please explain—”

“According to legend,” Xavier says, with a familiar glint in his eye. Cassandra smothers a groan. “Shortly before his death, Lord Demanitus built a vast library at the heart of a labyrinth far in the east. Its exact location has been forgotten—”

“It’s in southern Tarazed,” Adira says blandly.

“…A- ah.”

“I can mark the general location on a map.” She grins a sharp, smug little grin. “It’s big. Ugly. Really can’t miss it.”

“I- I see,” Xavier says, sounding torn between pleased and exasperated. “Thank you. Well. The story goes that he hid all his most valuable and dangerous research in those vaults. Many have tried to navigate the maze and failed, but none of them have had this book to guide them.” He thumps it, recovering somewhat. “Lord Demanitus left clues for his own progeny in these pages. With those clues, Princess…”

“We could navigate the Labyrinth and find whatever he left behind!”

“Yes, indeed.” Smiling, Xavier shifts his attention to Varian. “I cannot come with you, I’m afraid,” he says. “I suspect Corona has not yet seen the end of trouble from Zhan Tiri’s servants—”

Moira snickers, earning herself half a dozen glares.

“—and I must do what I can to protect this kingdom. But I can send the book with _you,_ instead.”

Varian makes an noise like a mouse being trodden on. “ _What?_ Are- are you serious?”

“There is no one I would trust more.”

“ _Demanitus_ wrote that book? And, and you think– I—?”

“I am certain that you can decipher its clues,” Xavier insists gently. “And… it will give you something to focus on, more than these dark times. A way forward. Take it.”

The book is so enormous that Varian has to strain to hold it; he gazes at it with watery-eyed reverence before hugging it to his chest.

“U- um. Su- Sugracha… said.” Sniffing, he closes his eyes. His lips tremble; he shrinks; and then, in a rush, he says, “She said my patients, Dad, everyone might still be alive in the amber, hn. That there might– because it’s magic, there could be a chance to save them. D’you think– was th- could that be _true?_ Because—”

Rapunzel plows right over the beginning of Xavier’s response. “Varian, if there’s a way to get them all out, we are _going_ to find it. And we’ll find Demanitus’s research, reunite the sundrop and moonstone, and _end this_ once and for all.” Her eyes blaze in the firelight. “I _promise._ ”

She straightens, balling her hands into fists at her sides, and for an instant Cassandra forgets how to breathe; because even bloodied and battered and exhausted as she is, Rapunzel looks _magnificent_ like this. Aglow with righteous indignation and fiery resolve. She looks like a _Queen_ again.

“Who’s with me? We’re going to need… oh, horses, supplies— a wagon? Where can we get a wagon, Eugene? Does anyone—”

“I have a ship,” Moira drawls.

Cassandra gapes at her. So does everyone else. Moira stretches her legs out toward the fire, crossing one jauntily over the other, and smirks, basking in it.

_What?_

“ _Excuse_ me?” Rapunzel asks.

Moira ignores her in favor of tilting her head in Varian’s direction, one eyebrow arched. “Your patients. They were sick, yeah?”

“…Um.”

“With something like the Socona blight.”

Blanching, Varian nods.

“So,” Moira says, very sweetly, “ _kiddo,_ you and me have a problem in common. If there’s a chance for a real _cure_ for this thing, I’m in.” Grinning, she cocks her head. “And I’ve got a ship. Faster than horses, a _lot_ faster than a wagon. Room for… _tch._ Four more, if we string up a couple hammocks in the hold.”

Cassandra does _not_ bury her face in her hands, or scream, but it’s a close thing. Stunned silence oscillates into suspicious silence and then back again and then—

“I don’t know if you heard,” and it’s Eugene, of course it would have to be _Eugene_ who asked, “Ornella—”

“Moira.”

“— _whatever!_ A ship won’t do much good if we’re headed _east._ ”

“It’s an airship,” Cassandra says through gritted teeth. _I cannot. Believe her!_ “It flies.”

Moira sulks at her, but rallies before the others do. “So now that’s settled—”

“Uh, no it is _not,_ ” Rapunzel splutters. “How do we know we can trust– who even _are_ you?”

“Name’s Moira Caine,” Moira drawls, with a simper and extravagant roll of her eyes. “ _Cassandra_ can vouch for me, can’t you, honey?”

“Yeah, _her_ endorsement sure means a _lot_ —”

“I trust her, Eugene,” Lance announces.

“…What? You do? …Why?”

Moira blinks, looking almost as taken aback by this as Eugene, which is very briefly gratifying. Then her eyes narrow, surprise giving way to dawning recognition. “Lance Strongbow? I’ll be damned. Heard you bagged Schatz a few months ago.”

“The one and only,” Lance says, firing off a sloppy salute. “Cassandra helped.”

“You _know_ her?!”

“Well, not _know,_ know.” Lance shrugs. “Never met, but, ahh… you know how it is, thief-taking. Can’t spend much time in Alcorsīa without hearing her name. Her rep’s good, Eugene, far as that goes. For a pirate, y’know. And… what other options have we got? We’re _all on the run now._ That means not much money, not enough horses, no supplies…”

_Sun and moon and stars above. Kill me now._

Rapunzel leans closer to Eugene, and while they debate in strained whispers, Moira slouches toward Cassandra, smirking with supreme self-satisfaction.

“I am,” Cassandra hisses lowly in Saporian, “going to _strangle you._ ”

“Funny, an hour ago I thought the same thing.”

“ _Moira._ ” Cassandra squeezes the bridge of her nose. _Her mom’s sick. It’s possible she just wants— but—_ “Did— _she_ put you up to this?”

Snickering, Moira coos, “Aw, honey, maybe I just don’t want you moping around missing your _girlfriend_.”

“ _You—”_

But there are no words in Saporian _or_ Coronan to express how much of an infuriating, frustrating, horrible, _colossal ass_ Moira is, so Cassandra just swells with unutterable wrath and forces out her breath in a harsh, angry puff.

“You are _awful._ ”

“I know,” Moira says gleefully.

“Well,” Eugene says, cutting loudly over Cassandra’s furious spluttering, “it’s your call, Sunshine. Whatever you decide—I’m with you.”

_Oh, Raps, please say no._

Indecision flickers over Rapunzel’s face. She clenches her fists, plucks at her bandages, glowers at Moira and then sweeps a rather hapless glance around the rest of the group, though she avoids Cassandra’s pleading gaze.

Sighing, she squeezes her eyes shut. When she wrenches them open again, it’s with a huge, brittle grin smeared over her face. “A flying ship sounds _perfect!_ ” she chirps, in the highest, fakest voice Cassandra has ever heard. “A great idea! How soon can we leave?”


	30. Epilogue

###  **Epilogue**

Frost crackles beneath Sirin’s boots when she steps through the circle of stones. The moon sinks low against the sea, and darkness lies heavy on Janus Point. Wet flakes of snow trace spiral patterns between the jagged rocks, the broken henge-stones.

“Well,” she murmurs. “You certainly… made a mess.”

A derisive scoff dribbles out of the thicket of thorns and flesh strung along the far end of the henge. “Your _niece_ made a mess of it.” Liquescent green light ripples down the brambles; Sugracha yanks herself free of the rocks. Squirming vines weave into the more familiar human shape, and she sneers as her face regrows. “Blame _her_ —”

Sirin freezes. “You did _not._ ”

“Oh, I did her a _favor,_ ” Sugracha snaps. “She was in the tunnels; would you rather I brought them down on her head? You’re _welcome._ ”

“You were supposed to leave Cassandra _out_ of—”

“Best laid plans, you know.” Vegetation wriggles under the folds of Sugracha’s long, mossy skirt as she slinks closer. “ _Tsk._ Oh, dear, don’t fret—she’s _fine._ ”

Seething, Sirin brushes past her to circle the cracked jardinière. The fleshless bones of her hand click over the ruptured reliefs, stark white against dark stone. “And you _failed,_ ” she says, sour. “Our Lady is still—”

“It is,” Sugracha retorts testily, “a _process._ Tonight was a victory by any measure. Herzingen is in ruins; Corona is in shambles. The cracks are a little wider. We have what we needed, and very nearly everything we hoped.”

“And a _war_ to fight, alone,” Sirin mutters.

“Always more to do,” Sugracha purrs. She curls her fingers around Sirin’s chin and tugs, grinning when Sirin glares at her. “Cassandra’s leaving. _That_ should please you, if nothing else. She’s sailing off with the sundrop and that little pirate of hers to fetch the moonstone for our Lady—so she’ll miss the war entirely. Serendipitous, isn’t it?”

“She’s _what_ —”

“They’ll supply in Alcorsīa before they leave. If you want to—” Sugracha sniffs, disdainful. “—say goodbye, or whatever sentimental nonsense suits you. And then, dear, I’ll meet you in Socona. We have _work_ to do.”

The doorway wicks out of the darkness behind her. Sugracha offers Sirin one last sardonic smile before she glides through it and vanishes; in her absence, the delicate frame of brambles crumbles into fine black dust and blows away with the wind.

Sirin slumps against the jardiniere. She presses a hand over her face, inhaling the scent of sap and loam emanating from the tree; the brine on the wind, and the lingering, decaying fragrance of magic that laces the vestiges of the longest night of the year.

Half a year has past since she stood here and stripped Charles Patton of his face, and for all that has _changed_ since then—

Groaning, she straightens up, and turns back toward the promontory. Over the Pingoras, the sky is fading from black to murky grey; the first inkling of the dawn.

_One more day. And then another, and another, endless, until the end._

Sirin takes a deep breath. She will have to content herself with that.

The sun is rising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …And that’s a wrap! 8]
> 
> Huge thank you to everyone who read, subscribed, gave kudos, left comments, made fanart (!), _wrote songs (!!)_ , sent questions, and otherwise engaged with the story. You are all so wonderful, and I’m more grateful for your support and enthusiasm than I can possibly express. ♥
> 
> I also want to give a special shout out to [hemlock/pathygen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathygen/pseuds/pathygen), because without her support, _Benighted_ would not exist. Go read her fic _strings,_ it’s top notch. 
> 
> The next big fic in this series, _Blind and Blackening in the Moonless Air,_ is underway! My plan is to take November to finish the rough draft, then begin posting a chapter a week beginning on December 1st. I hope to see you all there!
> 
> Art, random story chatter, and occasional worldbuilding rambles can be found in the bitter snow tag [on my tumblr](https://bestworstcase.tumblr.com/). Feel free to talk with me over there!  
> Once again, thank you all, and have a great Halloween!


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